


Lily and the Distraction

by Lola_di_Penates



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, James Potter Being an Idiot, James Potter is a Good Friend, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), POV Lily Evans Potter, Remus Lupin & Lily Evans Potter Friendship, Remus Lupin is a Good Friend, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Sirius Black is a Little Shit, Smart Is The New Sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25727728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_di_Penates/pseuds/Lola_di_Penates
Summary: Lily Evans is smart and determined. James Potter is hopelessly distracting.  A collection of 12 times Lily's brilliant mind is sidetracked by a (mostly) reformed troublemaker who craves her attention.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 34





	1. Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time (it was 2011), a much younger version of myself wrote ten chapters of this story. I had bright eyes, a bushy tail and (inexplicably) a very poor grasp of the English language. Yes, I am a native English speaker.
> 
> Because I can't read any of my old fanfiction without making my eyes bleed, I decided to regenerate this story by re-writing all of the previous chapters and adding an additional two just for fun.
> 
> Unlike my usual self, I'm going to try and update this frequently. The ideas are all in my head, I just have to fix the awful grammar.
> 
> Originally posted as "Lilies and Distractions" on ff.net if you want to submit yourself to that torture.

The thing about Petunia is, she’s never very thoughtful. There’s no doubt that she is well aware that you don’t have a lot in common. It’s not as if you look similar, participate in the same co-curricular activities as each other or like the same type of clothes. You certainly don’t have the same taste in boys, as you think Vernon is possibly the most revolting human you’ve ever met and Petunia mistakenly believes that he resembles Adonis.

What irks you the most is that she doesn’t try to understand the differences. It’s as if she goes through life blindly pretending that you are the same. That you have the same goals, interests and dislikes. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth because Petunia loves gossip magazines and hates magic, and quite frankly you couldn’t live without magic and would rather burn your eyes out than read about the Grapefruit Diet in _Ladies Home Journal_.

Because Petunia’s birthday is during the school term, you’d thought up her present well in advance, poring over home magazines to find the perfect set of hair rollers for her flat, compliant, dirty blonde hair. You assume she appreciates them because her hair is in pristine curls when she turns up in Cokeworth for your birthday in late August, fresh out of her typewriting traineeship in London.

She turns up with a gift, in fact. A pink, leather diary.

Well, you think, as you receive it with as much polite appreciation as you can muster, you should be thankful she came at all. Last year, Petunia met Vernon and was far too busy in London pretending to typewrite but in actual fact trying to impress the most boring person on earth.

You shoot a dark look at your mum who is evidently trying to hold in laughter at the sight of Lily Evans holding something that clashes so horribly with your burnt, red hair. You usually avoid the colour pink like it carries a bad case of spattergroit but here you are, ready to spill your secrets into its fairy floss coloured pages.

You’re no stranger to stationery. You have no aversion to the crisp, clean smell of paper or parchment. In fact, you can spend hours in the stationery store in town during the school holidays picking out pens and brightly coloured tabs for your revision notes. Your Gryffindor cohort think you are a bit nuts for using so much muggle stationery, but they also didn’t receive an “Outstanding” on every single O.W.L, so there is clearly a case to be made for highlighters.

You own stacks of planners. Every year they’re filled to the brim with revision time tables prepared at least twelve weeks in advance of exams and notes of every single class you attend. Everything is colour coded and meticulously organised. Green for potions, yellow for transfiguration, blue for charms etcetera. 

You’re a planner in every sense of the word. You have never, however, thought of yourself as a diary writer.

Diary writing requires self reflection and you’d rather just use your well organised planners to barge ahead into the future. You’re out to make a name for yourself, and you simply don’t have the time to be thinking about your _feelings_. Plus, in a school where everyone can do magic, you hardly think the little metal lock around the tab is going to be a useful mechanism in keeping the deepest, darkest secrets of your heart private.

You can’t imagine a more tantalising prospect for Sirius Black than finding a bright pink diary while he’s snooping through your things, looking for answers to homework or worse. His _prank du jour_ is writing rude words into the margins of your homework when you’re not looking so that Flitwick, when he returns another near-perfect score, does question why you chose to describe the bubble head charm as “weird as shit.”

Your planning, unlike pointless diary writing, is the reason that you’re currently sitting in your bedroom, running your thumb over the shiny badge that says “Head Girl.” It’s a satisfying moment, because although you know that academically speaking deserve it, a small part of you worried that the current anti-muggleborn climate might have caused the teachers to choose someone less controversial. It was bittersweet knowing that you could prove your worth, even if it meant you had to outperform every other student for an entire six years. You imagine life as a pureblood must be simple. No one ever questions your magic, even if you’re more of a dunce than Pettigrew. 

You wonder who is Head Boy. Plainly, you hope it isn’t Severus given that you haven’t spoken since the _Levicorpus_ incident at the end of fifth year. You hear rumours that the Head Girl and Head Boy have to share a separate dormitory, and you just can’t bear the thought of having that painful interaction brought to the surface of your memory every waking moment. 

Maybe diary writing could have it’s benefits, you think as you place the badge on the bedside table and pick up the pink monstrosity. It might be a good dumping ground for stuff so you can clear your mind for other things. Like a muggle form of occlumency.

You can’t imagine ever bringing yourself to write what you truly think, though. The thought of anyone ever reading it is just too anxiety-inducing. Perhaps you can write in code, you think. But that involves creating a code, which is far too much effort that could be spent on more useful things.

How does one even begin a diary entry, you think, as you pick up a pen absentmindedly. You imagine it starts somewhat like a letter, but writing “Dear Diary” makes the diary sound alive, which quite evidently, it isn’t. It would look odd just writing out a first sentence, too. You don’t want to mess up the first page because the diary is one of those annoying book-type ones where you can’t easily remove a page without it looking like you tried to give the book a haircut.

Maybe you can just make lists, you think. A list of goals would be helpful, and reflective. It would also take far less time. You’d also be far less likely to stuff it up.

You uncap the pen lid and write:

_September_

You sit back on the bed and think for a minute. Are you really going to spend the entire year writing lists every month? Then another thought comes to you. Who cares? Honestly, if it doesn’t work out you can _incendio_ this hot pink detritus and no one, not even Madame Pince, would give it a second thought. 

Chewing the bottom of the pen you write another line on the page. 

  * _Create a table of prefects duties and distribute at the Hogwarts Express prefects meeting to establish authority._



To be fair, you had been thinking about the table system ever since Dumbledore made you a prefect in fifth year. It makes so much more sense, and you have no idea why your predecessors never thought it up themselves.

Remus would think of something as logical as a table, you think. You dearly hope Remus is made Head Boy but given his frequent absences, you think it unlikely.

  * _Ensure Sirius Black does not disturb the peace on the Hogwarts Express._



A lofty goal, you think. Sirius Black disturbs the peace by virtue of his very existence.

  * _Establish a solid study routine and commit to it._



Not a difficult goal, left to your own devices. Unfortunately, you work best early in the morning and the library isn’t open at all hours of the day. Doubly unfortunately, James Potter will probably repeat his annoying habit of pretending to be a morning person too, in a desperate attempt to get your attention.

Another thought pops into your head.

  * _Threaten to deduct house points from Potter on at least three occasions._



It isn’t technically an abuse of power if you don’t actually do it, you reason. Plus, what is the impetus of deducting points from your own house? 

You wonder whether it is acceptable to deduct points for _failing to do one’s hair_ , or better yet, messing it up on purpose. Rumour is that Potter’s father is the creator of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. Well, their advertising isn’t very good.

  * _Best Potter at Transfiguration at the earliest possible opportunity._



This one would actually be quite difficult. Regrettably, Potter is actually quite skilled at Transfiguration, but you will eat a murtlap tentacle before you let him beat you at anything this year. 

You add another line to the end.

_And make sure he finds out about it._

Stooping to his level a little, but he deserves it.

  * _Find out how Potter successfully sneaks out of the castle so much and catch him in the act._



Ok, so it would be a slight distraction from your solid study routine goal, but it would soothe your curiosity a great deal to know how he gets away with breaking five hundred school rules every year. You know he’s started smoking muggle cigarettes too, because you can always smell them faintly on him and Black, but you’ve never managed to apprehend them.

  * _Get Marlene to show you how to apply winged eyeliner without smudging it._



Another challenging task. You aren’t very accomplished with make up, so you will need Marlene’s full attention. Marlene also knows how to do it by magic so it’s always perfectly symmetrical. You’re still putting it on like a plebeian with one eye half open and perpetually on the precipice of poking yourself all the way into the retina. 

Another thought comes to you.

  * _Convince Marlene to reject any Hogsmeade dates that Black may ask her on, because he’s a prat and then you’ll have to go with Potter just to save her._



Marlene seriously agreed to put her mouth on Sirius’ last year, which still alarms you. To be fair, it was on a dare during a particularly raucous post-Quidditch party, but still. Marlene tells you it’s Potter, Black and Pettigrew’s fault for spiking the punch, but you wouldn’t know because thankfully you are always on your guard around those three.

Besides, you have a ten to nil record with Potter to uphold. You can’t just start saying yes to his Hogsmeade dates now.

  * _Bewitch the snitch Potter is always carrying around to ram him on the head at random intervals._



You actually laugh at this thought. Then you do a double take. You can’t be pranking people as Head Girl, that’s just as bad as Potter himself! Besides, you think as you briefly appraise the list, you have a lot to accomplish in one month.

Then you look at the list a bit closer and frown. It troubles you that of nine semi-achievable goals, Potter is mentioned in more than half. There are two logical explanations for this, you reason.

The first is, that James Potter is a giant prat who is so terribly irritating that half your schooling life is spent thinking about all the ways he irritates you.

The second is, that you voluntarily think about James Potter, for reasons unknown, and that his presence actually entertains you.

You pause, chewing the pen absentmindedly. It must be the former. There is just no real reason why Potter would suddenly be taking up your thought space.

It’s not as if he’s particularly interesting, although he is always very engaging to talk to, but that’s probably because he’s weirdly obsessed with you. Upon reflection, he probably knows you better than Petunia does by now, and it takes an awful lot of effort to get to that point. He could possibly have accumulated enough content to write an unauthorised Lily Evans biography. 

You admit he can also be funny, on very select occasions. He is also fairly intelligent, even if he is always putting his intelligence to poor use.

He’s not exactly hard to look at either, although you’d never in a million years admit it to anyone. You’d literally have to experience a personality transplant to become a James Potter admirer who actually bothers to watch him flit around on a broomstick and occasionally do something useful on the pitch.

You have to reconcile with yourself that the growth spurt between years five and six definitely did him favours. No one could objectively say that a tall, lean and muscular physique is ugly. Plus the eyelashes. It is woefully unfair that boys have nice eyelashes when they don’t appreciate them. James has jet black eyelashes that are ridiculously long and have that natural curl that-

Christ. Since when was an area of your brain reserved for remembering what James-bloody-Potter’s eyelashes look like? That information needs to be dumped, pronto. There are far more important things to be remembered. Like what charms you have to perfect to get a world record Charms NEWT. Rumour has it that Defence Against the Dark Arts is introducing the Patronus Charm this year in response to the alarming news that the Ministry has lost control of a few dozen dementors. That should be interesting.

No doubt you will be able to produce one, at some point. Charms is your best subject, and a Patronus Charm is a charm of sorts. You wonder what form it will take. You wonder what form Potter’s will take. You hope it’s something useless, like a sloth. Knowing your luck he’ll probably manage to produce a lion and call himself the “Heir of Gryffindor” for the rest of the year. 

Upon reflection, this diary writing has done nothing but make you reflect on Potter. The last thing you want to be doing in the dying days of your summer holidays is thinking about the person who will haunt you at every opportunity while you’re at Hogwarts, Head Girl or not.

You throw the pink monstrosity and pen to the side and stretch your legs, thinking about wandering down to the local corner store for ice cream. With any luck, you’ll forget all about your strange James Potter monologue by the time you get back.

The trouble is, you don’t.


	2. Authority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter turned out to be a re-write because the one from 2011 was spectacularly bad. I'm not even sure of what I read, to be honest. Was it a Lily/James story or a "how to" guide on plot and timing inconsistencies?
> 
> I recently read a story which had a quip about forearm muscles. I wish I could remember which one so I could credit it, but my memory is truly awful. If anyone recognises it, please let me know.

Practically speaking, striding purposefully toward a solid brick wall should feel more ominous. It should feel ominous, even when you’re no longer nervous of the passageway and no longer run at it full pelt. But in your world, this isn’t scary. This is a homecoming. 

You feel the thick, warm blanket of radiating magic wash over you as you step through the brickwork onto the other side. Your senses are flooded with the billowing steam of the bright, red engine and the aimless chatter of hundreds of students. Your palms, cool on the sturdy metal of the trolley, anchor you to the surroundings.

Petunia’s scathing words from the other side of the passageway are silent, washed away by the overwhelming sense of belonging which flows through you. This is as much of your home as Cokeworth ever has been, and that’s not to say you don’t like Cokeworth. It’s just that in these moments you’re reminded that it’s not a negative to belong to two worlds at once. It’s a gift.

You’re feeling a little sad and nostalgic about this being your last time on the scarlet engine. It’s taken you away to your alternate reality so many times that it has started to feel like a crutch. 

Crutch or not, you’re also cutting it fine for timing, so you push the trolley purposefully toward Marlene, who has somehow convinced a much older, very suave looking individual to levitate her trunk onto the train. Not one to miss out on some free labour, you also manage to convince the red-headed Hercules to load your trunk.

“Thanks!” You say brightly from the steps and he gives you a half smile. Why burly men always do those funny half smiles is beyond you. Is it because they think smiling is for the weak?

You notice Marlene kisses him on the lips as she climbs into the train and waves as it starts to pull away from the station.

“Who is that and how old is he?” you enquire as you push through a bunch of younger students. You notice Severus in a compartment to your left, nose buried in a book which could only belong in the restricted section.

He catches your eye briefly and curves his dark features into a frown. Your breath catches slightly in your throat. He might as well have died. You could no longer tell this person apart from the next prospective Death Eater, regardless of whether or not he was once your best friend.

“Fabian,” Marlene says, bringing you back to your senses as you move through the train carriages, finally locating an empty compartment.

“ _Prewett_?!” you exclaim, “he’s got to be at least thirty!”

Marlene pushes open the compartment door and laughs, shaking her head. “You’re such a prude, Lily.” 

“Tell us something we don’t know Marly,” says a haughty voice, and you turn to find yourself inches from the smirking, aristocratic face of Sirius Black. You notice Pettigrew trails behind him looking a bit pathetic. Remus leans on the doorway of the next compartment, observing Sirius serenely.

“Where’s your shadow, Sirius?” you ask, scowling. “Have you two finally kicked the codependency?”

Sirius’ smirk widens, forebodingly.

“Whatever do you mean Evans? Pettigrew is right here,” he says, sweepingly gesturing to Peter who does a spontaneous little bow. 

You see Remus biting his lip, plainly finding it difficult not to be amused by Sirius’ theatrics.

“You know who I mean,” you reply, eyes narrowing.

Sirius pretends to consider this with Peter, who scratches his head in a way that you think is supposed to be humorous has the effect of making it appear he’s regressing a few thousand years of human evolution.

“Ooooh,” says Sirius loudly, in a long and drawn out way. “You’re asking about Potter?”

“Figures!” chimes in Peter from behind Sirius. You don’t know how one _figures_ this, but you’re sure it takes Peter a lot of brain power.

“I’m not quite sure, Evans,” Sirius says with fake sincerity, “but I’ll let him know you’re asking after him. I’m sure he will be _thrilled_ to oblige you with an audience.”

You give him the dirtiest look you can muster as he and Peter push themselves into the empty compartment next to Marlene’s. She gives you a bemused look. You clutch your pre-prepared, colour coded prefect’s duty table to your chest.

“I’ll see you when you’re done with the meeting,” she says, and nods to Remus. Remus nods back politely and then falls into step beside you as you make your way through the carriages.

“How do you _stand_ them, Remus?” you ask, as he laughs softly. “It must be painful having to hang around Sirius all day and have more than one brain cell.”

Remus smiles in your peripherals. “Sirius is a loyal friend, Lily,” he says in his perpetually calm, even tone. You figure it’s something that he has mastered over the years of constantly being surrounded by teenagers who want to _maraud_. 

“He’s actually quite intelligent, given how little work he actually does,” he continues. 

You scoff. “I wonder how many NEWTs that will get him.”

Remus just laughs politely again and steals a look at your table. “You know, I'm a big fan of the master table idea.”

You give him a smile as you pass through the second carriage. “I knew you would be on the same wavelength as me,” you say. Then more quietly, “I was actually hoping you would have been made Head Boy. Do you know who it is?”

Remus’ expression changes a little. He looks slightly conflicted. “Well,” he says, opening the front carriage door for you, “I guess we are about to find out.”

~.~

It’s _Potter_. Potter is Head Boy. Merlin help us all.

Knowing Potter as well as you do, you are genuinely surprised when he doesn’t say a word about your colour coded prefect duties table and doesn’t make any asinine suggestions at the meeting. He doesn’t even call the Slytherin prefects “slithings” or otherwise abuse his authority.

Notwithstanding this remarkable display of maturity, someone needs to alert the Aurors. Clearly, Dumbledore is either under the imperious curse or is suffering some kind of retrograde amnesia from an unknown head injury. You consider the implications of writing to the Ministry of Magic yourself as you sit numbly in the carriage to the castle with Marlene patting your leg sympathetically.

You rant and rave to poor Marlene for two hours straight on the train, and she’s still consoling you. That’s how you know she’s a great friend. No other friend could hear you bad mouth Potter for that long and not reach the end of their tether. Not after already being exposed to six years of it.

Alice, on the other hand, rolls her eyes. “Take it as a blessing,” she says, with a knowing look. “Now you two can obsess over each other without having to disturb anyone else.”

You _almost_ want to deduct house points for that comment.

You sit glumly through the start of term feast, stabbing the potatoes on your plate absentmindedly with your fork, thinking of Potter’s stupid hair. In the time it takes to do the round of introductions with the first years and show the girls to their dormitories, you temporarily forget that you have moved dormitories yourself this year.

Begrudgingly, you drag yourself off to your new lodgings. Potter is already there, bouncing around the shared common area with some kind of nervous energy.

Although it seems impossible, Potter has managed to grow even taller over the summer break. His voice is slightly deeper and smoother than you remember. His rich, inky black hair doesn’t look quite as purposefully messy as usual and, as he reaches up with one hand to run his hand through it (a nervous tic you’ve seen Potter exhibit many times before a Quidditch match), you could swear there’s more sinewy muscle in his forearms.

His forearms, for Godric’s sakes.

To be perfectly honest, you’re momentarily mesmerised by this older, smoother version of Potter. Then he opens his mouth.

“Hello Evans,” he says brightly, as if your mere presence shines light into his otherwise mediocre existence.

You frown in his direction and throw your outer robe on the corner of the couch.

“Hello Potter,” you reply. It’s not incredibly friendly but it’s probably better than he usually gets from you. You are making _somewhat_ of an effort to be civil.

He frowns slightly, mimicking your own. “Have I done something to upset you already?” he asks, unusually self aware. “This must be a new record.”

“No it’s not,” you point out, “I usually yell at you on the train and I refrained from doing so this year.”

His brows stay furrowed but the edge of his lips quirk slightly in amusement. “Yes, that was an incredible display of restraint,” he remarks sarcastically, flopping himself down on a stuffed armchair next to the fire.

You cross the room to sit on the couch opposite him, fiddling with a thread in your skirt absentmindedly. “Don’t take offence to this Potter, but how-” 

“I have _no_ idea,” he says quickly, cutting you off. He actually looks genuinely perplexed. “I mean I’m not complaining because, well, obviously,” he says, gesturing towards you, “but I’ve never followed a school rule in my six years here, let alone enforced one.”

You raise an eyebrow appraisingly. “What are you going to do about Sirius Black, then?” you ask.

He looks back at you, a small flicker of panic igniting his features. “I haven’t actually told him yet,” he admits, “which is harder than it sounds because he was at my house all summer. I had to swear my parents to secrecy.”

He looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable admitting this and a small part of you wants to laugh. For all of the years Potter had spent being an absolute nightmare to everyone, this is, in some ways, the perfect punishment. 

“Well he’s going to find out when you’re not sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitory tonight,” you respond, pointing out the obvious, “and then what are you going to do? Turn a blind eye to his antics?”

He bites his lower lip which, to your dismay, is inexplicably distracting. For a moment, your brain considers that you wouldn't mind raking your lips over his, which is an alarming idea.

“I thought I might defer that honour to you?” he says, voice pleading softly. “Or Remus,” he says quickly, remembering that his other friend is in fact a prefect.

Your frown deepens in response.

“You’re not even going to try and reign him in?” you ask, judgment seeping into your tone.

Potter looks slightly offended. “I’ve been trying to reign him in for six years, Lily!” he exclaims.

You know this is a blatant lie because Potter has been the ringleader of that little gang for as long as it has existed. Although Sirius exudes aristocratic charm with a devil-may-care attitude (a combination which every other witch at Hogwarts seems to find irresistible), he doesn’t have the requisite air of authority.

“Spare me,” you scoff disbelievingly. “If Sirius bothers me tomorrow, the first thing I’m going to tell him is that you somehow tricked Dumbledore into making you Head Boy and that you’re going to be personally responsible for his actions for the rest of this year.”

To your surprise, Potter smiles mischievously. He leans back in his arm chair and throws a leg across one of the arm rests. “If you tell him that, don’t forget to mention that we share a dormitory, will you?”

You scowl at Potter and flounce off the couch, collecting your robe with a flourish.

“I will not be telling him that, Potter,” you reply, venomously.

His hazel eyes dance dangerously from behind the frame of dark lashes as he smiles even more broadly. “That's okay,” he says simply, “I’ll make sure to tell everyone that we are now spending every night together.”


	3. Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another complete re-write on this chapter. Won't go into detail, but it was an ordeal.

For someone who considers themselves quite intelligent, it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to work out how you feel about James Potter. At first, you think it’s a weird, split personality thing that you never recognised before. To your surprise, James Potter is not _always_ a prat. He’s not always mature either, to be fair. But he seems to be a lot less arrogant and a lot less of a bully than you perhaps once thought.

It may be that he is taking his Head Boy role more seriously than he lets on (the random collection of pastries that occasionally frequent your shared dormitory would suggest he has not yet ceased sneaking off to the kitchens), or perhaps he is really just becoming more of a normal human being. Wonders may never cease.

The other fortunate thing about this apparent personality transplant is that he is far more relaxed around you. You suspect this may have something to do with the lack of opportunities for peacocking around Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. However, it could also be that prolonged exposure to you has inevitably given him more of your attention and he doesn’t feel like it’s a challenge to obtain it anymore.

In general, that thirst for your attention confuses you greatly. Practically any female at Hogwarts, save for Professor McGonagall and maybe a couple of Slytherins, would gladly lick your big toe to go to Madame Puddifoot’s with James Potter (then again, he is a pureblood so maybe the Slytherins would also accept). Christ, Marlene would probably say yes. However, the only person that Potter appears to harass consistently for a date is you. 

You can’t help but think the challenge aspect may be a big drawcard for him because there really is no other explanation. You are intelligent but you’re also prone to stress-related outbursts, bad hair days and breakouts that even Tolipan Blemish Blitzer won’t fix. You wouldn’t say you’re ugly, but you’re far from being the fairest of them all (or at least, in the Hogwarts castle).

The other confounding factor is the amount of time you now spend thinking about James Potter and his supposed transformation. You’re not sure when he became such a feature in your day to day thoughts, however you stop yourself midway through a potions essay on the potential uses of Boomslang skin when you find yourself writing a sentence on how the ingredient can be used as a metaphor for the shedding of the old skin to grow into the new. This is, of course, completely irrelevant to potion making, although Slughorn will probably give you points for “ingenuity”. What really shocks you is that it’s only November and your solid, unshakable belief in Potter’s poor attitude and undesirable personality is quickly unravelling. 

This is particularly alarming for an obsessively organised person who likes to categorise their opinions into discrete, mental boxes. Chocolate? Good. Every-Flavour-Beans? Bad. Dumbledore? Good. He Who Must Not Be Named? Bad. Marlene? Lovely. Potter? Bad, but in a lovely way?

You’re still trying to wrap your head around these conflicting love-to-hate type feelings when you walk side by side down down the corridors on prefect duty. James likes to come with you these days, even when it’s not his allocated night. He says it’s for your protection (from what exactly, you're yet to determine), but really he just likes to prattle on about things. Shockingly, you’ve found you don’t really mind the company.

He struts alongside you, looking at ease even in the darkness of the castle. You figure this is because he has spent so many of his six and a half years sneaking around. You have to admit, you’re unsure how he gets away with it so often but it is somewhat impressive. In an uncharacteristic display of adherence to the rules, he’s actually doing his job tonight. He’s been relatively successful at looking out for misdeeds, actually. Not twenty minutes ago he located a broom closet being used for nefarious purposes and another student out of bed. Takes one to know one, you guess. 

You, on the other hand, have been completely useless, because all you can think of is the bloody Boomslang skin essay and what it _means_ that you’re now inadvertently writing observations on Potter’s personality traits into your schoolwork. 

You wonder if he actually takes Hogsmeade dates to Madame Puddifoots. To James’ credit, it doesn’t really seem like he would. He seems like the type to want to do something more illegal and adventurous, like poke around the shrieking shack. Madame Puddifoots wouldn’t be for you, of course. The amount of pink in that shop would clash awfully with your hair and-

You stop yourself mid-thought in horror and have a small, internal crisis. Somehow, you manage not to make the panic evident on your face, but clearly just considered going on a _date_ with James Potter.

Perhaps, you think, it’s time to resign yourself to your fate. Perhaps, you have started to fall under the Potter-spell. Perhaps Potter isn’t really having a well-needed period of personal growth; you are simply becoming immune to his prattishness because you _fancy_ him.

Yes, _fancy him_. 

It is true that during the first Quidditch game of the season, you actually bothered to attend. At the time, you reasoned that it was necessary for the Head Girl to at least pretend to participate in co-curricular events. However in retrospect, you never bothered to check up on the Gobstones Club or the latest Wizard’s Chess Championship. 

You did, however, get a very sick feeling in your stomach during that Quidditch game when Potter almost got knocked out by a bludger that managed to get past Cobb and Burgess. He missed it by an inch, but it did make you want to be sick all over the Gryffindor banner strung over the stands. You thought, at the time, it was just a lack of appreciation for the sport. Maybe in fact, you were _worried_ about him. 

It’s also true that sharing a dormitory with Potter is far from the painful experience you had envisaged the day you found out that Dumbledore had chosen him to be Head Boy. You were shocked to discover that he cleans up after himself more than you do, owls his mother religiously and likes to read muggle novels.

At some point, you establish a solid Sunday night routine with Potter. You prop yourselves up on each end of the battered, comfortable couch in the common area and flip open a book, legs stretched out. At first, you were very careful they didn’t touch, which was not a difficult feat given that the couch is so wide. However, you have noticed as time has gone on, that they have become a lot more haphazard. Lately, your legs have become a bit of a jumbled mess, with definitely no rules about touching. 

In all honestly you like touching Potter. Mostly because you get so cold you’re practically a reptile, and James is so hot he could be a warming charm. Admittedly, you also enjoy the heady rush of adrenaline you get when his skin brushes against yours, despite how innocent it is. You’re not sure if Potter ever feels it, but it’s almost as if you have a little electric current under your skin that sparks at the point of contact.

Potter also has some interesting quirks, you think. You’ve known about the anxious hair pulling since second year, but you’ve never looked closely enough to recognise the way his smile is slightly asymmetrical, or the fact that he goes through quills like they’re going out of fashion because he chews on the end of them. Something which is absolutely abhorrent and unhygienic but is interesting nonetheless. 

On the other hand, there remain some definitive character flaws about James Potter.

His arrogance, for one. It seems to dissipate slightly when he’s not in front of anyone else, but it still exists nonetheless.

He _knows_ that the vast majority of the student body are in love with everything he and Sirius do. He _knows_ he’s a talented Quidditch player and annoyingly intelligent given his blatant lack of regard for school work. He _knows_ he’s on track to break every single school rule ever envisaged and get away with it. He _knows_ he’s disgustingly good looking. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if one day he declares that he can solve He Who Must Not Be Named’s deep seated mental issues or divide by zero.

James Potter is a prat. A very irritating prat, who looks across at you intermittently as he chatters on about something you’re blatantly not listening to, consumed by your self-psychoanalysis and slight delirium. 

You’re not sure you could ever love James Potter. But then again, you never thought you could have liked him either and yet here you are.

Where does that even fit, you wonder? Is there a continuum you can place a little dot on in ink and be done with it? Can you prevent it from getting wet and seeping further up the page? 

You’re still absentmindedly staring at him when you approach the final staircase of the night. You’re so immersed in your qualitative analysis of whether James Potter is an unfortunate phase or a deeply ingrained issue of attraction that you’ve totally submitted to your thoughts over your reality. 

Unfortunately, reality has a way of springing itself on you, no matter how hard you think.

You’re not really aware of falling until you feel a sharp pain in your head and the clanging of a suit of armour that has somehow become a casualty of your clumsiness. The pain tells you that you manage to hit something relatively hard on the way down and the wooziness says you do it in a fashion which probably looks spectacularly uncoordinated. When you look up and see a flight of stairs hazing in and out from above you, you cringe. 

Things are getting a bit fuzzy. Black spots appear in your vision and you start to become a bit more concerned about potential brain injury. You’ve always been a mild hypochondriac, but you’ve never actually managed to fall headfirst down a flight of stairs before. You are somewhat unsure how seriously you should take the pounding in your head. 

A concerned face appears into your vision, swimming in and out of focus. It smirks slightly. You can’t even blame him because you suppose the sight was at least mildly funny.

“Evans?” he says inquiringly, scooping your top half up with his arms and lifting you into a seated position. Potter is evidently uneducated about spinal injuries. You thank Merlin that you appear to have hit your head, rather than fractured your spine. Potter could have paralysed you for life in two seconds flat. 

“Lily?” he repeats, a little less sure of himself. His dark eyebrows knit into confusion, his top teeth biting down on his bottom lip. 

“Must have missed the top step,” you mumble, somewhat coherently. He snickers and runs a hand over the top of your head.

“Should I take you to the hospital wing?” he asks. “I can tell them that we got attacked by a rogue broom closet and you fell while saving me from its perilous grasp.”

Despite the tenderness in the back of your skull you swat at him with your left hand, which he deftly avoids. “If you make me go to the hospital wing or dare repeat this incident to anyone, I’ll use your broomstick for firewood.”

He grins and silently runs his fingers across his lips. Before you can truly appreciate what is happening, he picks you up gently in his arms. You only let him do it because it’s another fifty metres to the Heads dormitory and you don’t feel like walking. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. 

In reality, you can feel that ink dot moving, and it seems to be totally out of your control. Either that, or you don’t _want_ to control it, and honestly you’re not sure what is worse. Lily Evans, the final frontier in the staunch aversion to James Potter’s charms, has capitulated. Raised the white flag. Totally given up. 

In any case, you’ve literally just fallen head over heels at the mere thought of him. Boomslang skin be damned.


	4. Aim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing new to say here except it that it was another total re-write. Although, I can see the writing slowly getting better in the original story and I am hopeful that better grammar and a reduced amount of plot holes are on the horizon.

In your view, there should be some sort of commemorative ceremony in March. It’s the longest stretch in Hogwarts history that passes without Lily Evans and James Potter yelling at each other, pestering each other, or (in James’ case, specifically) asking the other on a date.

The Sunday night reading ritual, which is strictly adhered to, has morphed into a range of other activities. You’re becoming quite partial to the illicitly obtained pastry from the school kitchens and the two of you sit around, books spread out on the floor munching on the golden crusts. Potter is only pretending to work, you know that, but he doesn’t disturb you as you scrawl out potions essays and practice incantations. You even let Potter show you one of the secret tunnels out of the school and don’t tell him off for it. In fact, it feels quite thrilling to break a school rule.

The closer you get to James Potter, however, the more two things become readily apparent. 

The first is that you’re unequivocally attracted to him and it pains you to admit it. You constantly remind yourself to resist any kind of teenage-hormone fuelled desire to fling yourself into his arms and ravage him. To his credit, Potter has also been uncharacteristically respectful of your personal space. He lets you make all of the decisions surrounding how closely you sit on the couch and whose-leg-goes-where.

This is nice, because you no longer feel the need to pretend that you don’t enjoy his company. In other ways, it’s completely infuriating because you’re not sure that your pride will ever allow you make any sort of definitive first move. The mere idea of it haunts you when you’re lounging on the couch on a Sunday night and, despite your best efforts to concentrate on the book in front of you, you can’t help but think it would be just too easy to crawl across his legs and kiss him stupid.

Admittedly, you miss him horribly over the winter holidays when he and Sirius go back to Godric’s Hollow over Christmas. James even asks you casually if you want to come with them, but Sirius’ face darkens slightly and he quips that you never do anything James asks and so he really shouldn’t bother (which is true, even if it is a little hurtful). You don’t feel like you can say yes after that, so you tell Potter you love to, but you’ve committed yourself to studying over the winter break.

Sirius snorts and looks vindicated. Potter doesn’t look too crestfallen. He just raises an eyebrow and says something about needing to take a break.

Over the next two weeks you pick up and put down a quill four thousand times, itching to write to him to tell him how you miss his company and that the dormitory feels so empty and lifeless without him. Unfortunately, you realise that a letter like that would go far beyond the realm of friendly and would also seem a bit pathetic. You envisage Sirius’ prying eyes reading those words and immediately abandon the idea.

The second thing you recognise is that Potter keeps some things to himself. He rarely bothers to hide his nighttime adventures to the kitchens from you anymore, but there are some other suspicious goings-on that he doesn’t seem eager to disclose.

He covers it all by saying that he and Sirius are just having a laugh, but once every four weeks or so you wake at an obscenely early hour, hearing him stumble through the portrait hole and fall into bed. Quite often, he does this fully clothed because he comes out the next morning looking extraordinarily tired and dressed in dirty robes that are occasionally ripped in places. If this is the life of a marauder, it doesn’t look very glamorous in your opinion.

He spends the following days being uncharacteristically irritable and moody. Sirius, on the other hand, always looks like his normal self. However, you begin to notice that Sirius’ demeanour has a slightly tortured quality to it and so a night of sleep deprivation probably doesn’t change much. Sirius, with his devil-may-care attitude, always has a mischievous smirk plastered on his face. But you notice that quite often the expression doesn’t reach his eyes, which look vacant or bored. You wonder whether your over-exposure to James Potter is starting to make you feel some kind of way about Sirius Black by association and you dearly hope you’re not getting soft on rule-breakers.

It’s on a Saturday in spring, a week before the Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor match, by the time the first real altercation of 1978 happens. An unseasonably warm day for the second week of March, you drag a sickly-looking Remus Lupin out into the sunshine for a walk near the Black Lake. After twenty minutes, it’s evident that he needs to sit down for a bit, so you sprawl out on the flat lawn next to him and absentmindedly watch the Gryffindor Quidditch team wrap up their training in the brilliant sunshine.

Remus manages to fall asleep at some point. You hope he doesn’t get sunburnt but you’re desperately thirsty so you leave him to bask in the sun and make the short trip to the drinking fountain at the back of the broom sheds. In hindsight, you should have just taken a sip out of the Black Lake instead.

The height of the drinking fountain is so absolutely awkward and wrong, you think as you allow the water to satisfy your thirst. It’s so short that you have to bend over uncomfortably, engaging your painfully underworked leg muscles, and your hair falls all over your face into the stream of liquid.

All of a sudden, you become aware of someone in front of you, tapping their foot impatiently and coughing.

Standing up, you see James Potter, black hair legitimately windswept and looking slightly frazzled. 

You bend back down to drink again, just to make him wait the extra second. He sighs, impatiently.

“Evans, hurry up,” he says and mutters something to the effect of Lily Evans _not_ being a hot and sweaty Quidditch player under his breath.

You straighten up again and raise an eyebrow at him. “It seems to me that the brooms do all the exercise, Potter. Do you actually have to do much more than hang on?”

He scowls, hazel eyes narrowing. Clearly, you’ve hit a sore point and James is in the middle of one of his monthly sleep deprived phases. He pulls his lips to the side and crinkles his nose.

“What would you know, Evans?” he says irritably as he shifts his weight and folds himself in half to use the water fountain, “there’s no physical exertion required to read books.”

Really, the thing is designed for a five year old. Or a house elf.

“Oh so you actually require skill to throw brightly coloured objects at each other?” you smirk, egging him on. It feels natural to have this sort of to-and-fro friction with James and it has been conspicuously absent this year. 

James narrows his eyes even further, bending upwards from the drinking fountain to face you. “Well you need coordination for a start,” he says wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You could do with a bit of that.”

It’s your turn to prickle with irritation. The stair incident. How dare he.

He bends back over to continue drinking.

“What about reckless idiocy?” you ask in an innocent tone which completely contradicts the glare of a thousand knives that you direct at his bent over form. “You seem to exude it.”

He pauses his drinking again to respond and pretends to consider your response. “True,” he says, missing your glare, “but that’s not strictly necessary. It’s for the adoring fans - like yourself.”

Temper flaring, your neck feels like little fire ants are running along it and you have an urge to scratch it, viciously. A muscle in your jaw clenches uncomfortably. You’re vaguely cognisant of the fact that you’re about to do something rash, and there’s not much you can do to stop it.

Potter smirks at you, which is stupid because you’re toying with the idea of whipping your wand out and giving him antlers. You learnt the _Anteoculatia_ hex a few weeks ago from a book you were reading and you wouldn’t mind giving it a try.

“Your ego is out of control, Potter,” you manage to say, albeit in a very shrill voice. “I’m surprised you can fit your fat head through the castle doors.”

He snorts derisively as he says, “Not your best insult, Evans.” Then leaning back down to drink from the tap again he mutters, “Must have hit a nerve.” 

It’s too much. You don’t know where the particularly childish idea comes from, but before you’ve even resolved to do it, your body acts of its own accord. Your arm whips forward and pushes your thumb over half of the fountain spout under his lips, so for half a second the water comes out in all directions, spurting all over his face.

Then you run.

You’re not really an athletic person either, so the way you bolt back toward Remus is likely much slower than it feels. Remus has woken up, probably from your shrill yell at James, and is wearing a bemused expression on his face. An expression which can only be explained by the sight of you, panting in agony from your burning quadriceps and Potter, who is quickly advancing on you. To your great disappointment, Remus doesn’t look poised to assist. 

“Help me!” you shriek, flinging yourself toward Remus who steps to the side, very unhelpfully.

“If you help her Moony-” Potter yells from right behind you. 

You don’t have a chance to question who or what a Moony is because Potter catches you around the waist the very next second. His deceptively strong arms hold you warm against his chest which, for the briefest of moments, feels very nice. The problem is, Potter is keen on administering payback that you _probably_ deserve and manages to swing you over his shoulder like a sack of red haired, angry, squealing potatoes. He kicks your wand, which has fallen to the ground, towards Remus.

“Don’t be stupid, James,” Remus says in a warning tone, but you can see his lips are slightly curved at the edges. What a dirty traitor, you think. 

Ignoring Remus, James marches forwards, ignoring your demands to return you to the ground and avoids your limbs flailing helplessly in mid-air. You dearly hope no one is witnessing the exchange, although it’s the first nice day you’ve had since winter so you expect practically the whole school outside.

“Tell me Lily,” James says, stumbling forward as you wriggle as much as is humanly possible, “do you like water, too?”

Your eyes widen. No way, James Potter. 

You have a vague memory of saying that you would rather date the Giant Squid than James Potter, but at this moment, you’re not so sure.

Before you can open your mouth, he flips you over and deposits you into the Black Lake. In that split second, your arms reach out to try and scramble for any sort of hold that will prevent you from falling in and find purchase in a scrap of James’ Quidditch robes. Without thinking, you pull as hard as possible and with a yell he’s dragged into the black water which submerges you both.

Spluttering, he resurfaces next to you and for a moment, you stare at each other treading water, confused as to how this whole sorry chain of events unfolded. Thank Christ you can both swim.

Then, without warning, he bursts into hysterics. His uncontrollable laughter impacts his ability to make the short swim back to the embankment. For a moment, you think he probably deserves to drown (just a little bit), but you push him roughly onto the side of the lake as you scramble with the weeds and tree roots and manage to lift yourself out.

You collapse with him on the grass, shivering, but unable to resist the incredulity of it all and start to laugh along with him. You sit there looking bedraggled and quite frankly manic until Remus gives James a good natured kick in the shoulder and tells him that if McGonagall sees you both in this state she’ll probably take his broom away for good.

He shakes his waterlogged hair and pulls himself to his feet. Remus has to help you up because you’re so cold you’ve begun to shake like a leaf and, when you try to wring the black water out of your long hair, you find that your fingertips have completely lost feeling. 

You turn to look at James, his lips as ghostly white as yours despite the midday sun glimmering overhead.

He’s soaked to the bone and his dark hair is more haphazard than you have possibly ever seen it. But for some reason, you feel like you’re seeing James Potter for the first time. Not the obnoxious, arrogant, troublemaker mask he puts on. Not even the careful, guarded facade he occasionally wears, probably for your benefit. 

It’s the brilliant, fun-loving and slightly hot-headed James Potter that shines through. Rash and reckless as he may be, he also emanates a warm, easy-going personality that washes over you in a very intoxicating way.

You suppose your brain must be frozen, because you can’t seem to fill your mind with anything except James Potter and how utterly beautiful he is. Despite the cold and the wet and the weird stares everyone is giving you, you can’t look away. 

Until Remus steps on your half-frozen foot, that is.

“Hurry up you lovesick berks,” he says, slapping your wand back in your hand as you realise James has been staring at you just as intensely. Remus prods you both in the back towards the castle. You hear him mutter something that sounds like “honestly,” under his breath.

James turns to face you and grins as you trudge across the lawn towards the castle and something in your stomach flutters in response. A more emotionally adept person would realise that this is the moment that you fall in love with James Potter. 

But because you’re not that sort of person, that realisation comes later.


	5. Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original version of this chapter had one of those classic disclaimers in the author's note like "not sure about this one, I think it sucks LOL but posted it anyway! Pls review!!1!"
> 
> At risk of sounding like my former self, I think this is an improvement but I still wouldn't mind if you wanted to tell me that it sucks. Your comments and kudos are always appreciated.

In early April, the study stress starts to hit. You have that manic, perfectionistic energy about you, even though the NEWTs are just under two months away. There’s just not enough _time_ , you think as you bounce up and down on your feet, staring at your revision schedule. You should have made this chart weeks ago.

You’re not ordinarily a competitive person, in fact, the person you like to compete with the most is yourself. But you do have an unquenchable thirst to prove yourself. It might be an insecurity born out of being a muggle born; someone who inherently has to work harder to prove that they belong in the magical world. Or it could be because you have crafted a persona over your six years of being the smart, driven student. Maybe, you just want to be remembered as being good enough.

In any case, you need to get top NEWTs no matter how exhausting or nasty they are. Given the current political climate, you’re not sure what jobs will be open to a muggle born candidate, and you have to have something going for you. Something to prove that, although you don’t have the pedigree of a pureblood, you’re just as competent. 

The caveat to your usual abstinence of competition is, of course, James Potter. The poster child for pureblood wizards who, for some reason, cannot give less of a damn about actually being a pureblood wizard. Although you are grateful that prats like James and Sirius exist; purebloods who openly ridicule the opinions of their less than tolerant peers, it is also maddening to see them _do nothing_ with the leg up they have been given in life.

James and Sirius are pureblood, not proud of it and not productive in any sense of the word. In fact, as NEWTs get closer, they somehow seem to do even less work than they have ever done before. James is still blessedly quiet in the shared dormitory and allows you to spread your parchment and books all over the floor as you work at ridiculous hours through the mountains of exam preparation which you have taken on in addition to your regular homework. If you stop to think about it, however, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen him even look in the direction of a book.

The real problem is that James and Sirius are wildly intelligent, and there’s no point denying it. They have the devil-may-care attitude, the natural talent and the impeccable breeding to boot. They barely break a sweat when asked a question in class, even though you never see James do any preparation. In fact, you’re fairly certain both of them were performing NEWT level transfiguration in your fourth year. McGonagall tolerates their bad behaviour because firstly, they’re gifted students and secondly, they’re both on the Quidditch team that won the House Cup last year. It’s obscenely unfair. 

You’re a hard working student who gets great grades because you care to put in the hours. But that just feels like an inordinate waste of time when people like James and Sirius dare to exist. They sometimes even make Remus look like a squib, and he works even harder than you.

It’s with this air of uncertainty and anxiety that the disaster of the Patronus Charm unfolds. 

The Patronus Charm is, of course, a charm. So naturally you expect that you will be proficient at it. Your best subject is charms after all (closely followed by potions). A Patronus Charm isn’t ordinarily within the standard coursework for the NEWTs, but it’s been added this year as a precautionary measure given the current state of affairs with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and parental anxiety about preparing children for not only their future vocation but also for potential warfare.

You know that James and Sirius are also very interested in this class because they tell everyone on a daily basis that they’re budding Aurors. You like to remind James that Aurors need to be mature and resist their random urges to throw people in lakes. He just laughs and says that no Dark Wizard could ever scare him like you do.

The class starts with Professor Dromatious explaining how complex the charm is and that the class shouldn’t expect to successfully cast it on their first attempt. He shuts the blinds and dims the classroom in order to create the necessary, depressing effect. A gloomy glow settles across the room and the glass jars behind the professor’s desk glint dangerously in the low light.

It appears that Dromatious has also cast an atmospheric charm of some sort. The entire feeling of the room is one of crushing hopelessness, albeit probably positively cheery compared to a real Dementor.

You look eyes fall on James across the room. He looks preoccupied, but you quickly realise that’s because Sirius has tied Peter’s shoelaces together and is waiting with bated breath for him to try and move. The negative atmosphere appears to wash off all three of them like water on a duck’s back. Remus looks concerned and you don’t blame him.

Professor Dromatious suggests that you pair up to practice, and as expected, Marlene pulls you to the side before Dirk Cresswell can ask her. You notice Remus speaking to Dromatious in a low, urgent voice. You try to eavesdrop as something is clearly disturbing him, but after a few seconds Dromatious just nods his head and Remus strides quickly from the room, collecting his books as he goes.

Just as he whips out of the door, Peter falls over his feet predictably and Sirius snorts. Peter scowls at him and shoots a stinging hex which hits Sirius in the wrist. Sirius scratches at it and says something about fleas and the three of them dissolve into laughter together.

Dromatious isn’t impressed. As punishment, he demands that Potter and Pettigrew pair with Marlene and you with Black. It isn’t entirely fair that you are doomed to a horrible lesson as well, you think. At least you escaped Peter who is now scowling even deeper at the Professor.

Sirius grins at you. 

“So have you mastered this one, Evans?” he asks, twirling his wand between his hands.

“I’ve never attempted. Why don’t you show me,” you say with an air of innocent challenge. He takes the bait.

“I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to teach the great Lily Evans a lesson,” he smirks and flourishes the hawthorn and dragon-heartstring wand. Peter looks over at him hopefully and whispers something to James. James grins in response. 

_Of course_ Sirius Black can cast a perfect, fully corporeal Patronus, you think. You live in hope that one day you will turn up to a class where James and Sirius fail to do something perfectly the first time they try. That would be evidence that the world was not inherently unfair.

A great, silvery dog the size of a small bear bursts out of the tip of his wand and floats on air as it runs the length of the classroom. Sirius doesn’t look remotely surprised at the unusually large animal. He looks as if someone taught him to cast a Patronus in primary school.

Professor Dromatious is, of course, beside himself. A student able to cast a Patronus charm on their first attempt is virtually unheard of. You’re fairly certain this is not Sirius’ first attempt at a Patronus Charm but he doesn’t make any move to correct the Professor. On the contrary, he laps up the praise. Every other head in the room turns to face them, silvery shadows of light outshone by the brilliant animal.

Not five minutes later, a regal stag is prancing around Marlene as Potter directs it with his wand. Someone may as well have _engorgio_ -d his head. He looks far too pleased with himself.

Even Peter manages to produce more than a wisp. A small animal takes shape on his attempts although it isn’t as formed and controlled as the other two. Still, it’s something.

It’s something more than you have, that’s for sure. Thin wisps of silvery light emanate from your wand and Marlenes, even when you concentrate on the happiest memory you can think of. The dim and gloomy classroom is making it so hard to concentrate on happy memories in general that you eventually just give up and try to help Marlene who is actually further along the process than you are.

It’s even more difficult to concentrate with Black and Potter prancing around the classroom and Peter piping up to tell everyone that he can actually _almost_ do it, too.

“I didn’t know I was smarter than Evans,” he taunts as he looks at your pathetic attempt.

Black is looking at you so smugly that you want to be sick all over his tatty shoes. James rolls his eyes and reminds Peter that he blew something up in potions not two hours ago.

Sirius laughs. Ironically, it sounds very animalistic and in alignment with his Patronus.

~.~

Over the next two weeks you become increasingly pathetic, desperately trying to make the Patronus Charm work. You know it will likely be on the Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT and you’re starting to panic. The panic is making it increasingly difficult to come up with happy memories to use in a fight against a non-existent Dementor.

Schoolwork should never be this hard you think, as you practice the incantation for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s fast approaching midnight and your sleep deprivation is really starting to take a toll on your concentration.

James waltzes through the portrait hole just after twenty minutes later, evidently back from a late-night jaunt down to the kitchens. He empties his pockets of pastries onto the table and grins.

“Need help?” he asks, bending down to look at the textbook on the floor.

You are frustrated by the very suggestion. Despite the fact that James does no work and somehow manages to be your academic superior, you can’t recall ever being wholly incapable of doing something that he is able to.

“I don’t need help, Potter,” you hiss. “I’m just tired and struggling to feel happy about anything.”

“Oh,” he says, as he drops down onto the couch next to you and runs a hand through his hair. You wonder, given your unfriendly reaction, why he decides to impose his company on you.

“How is this so easy for you?” you moan. “Is it because you’re always thinking up idiotic things to find hilarious?”

He laughs and leans back onto the cushion. “Believe it or not, I don’t think about myself when I conjure a Patronus.”

You don’t quite believe it, but for some reason his presence is proving settling rather than irritating. “How long have you been able to cast one, anyway,” you ask.

He shrugs. “A while.”

You feel a rush of something that feels awfully like affection as you look across at him on the couch. The nonchalant modesty, so far away from the James Potter of old, strikes you. 

He clears his throat and says, “I can help you think of something if you like?”

You look at him with half-hearted suspicion. “Potter, you know nothing about my life except that I attend Hogwarts, like chocolate mint ice cream and dislike Transfiguration.”

A small smile creeps onto his lips. “You have more likes than that,” he says.

By Salazar you do. One of them is sitting right in front of you with that slightly asymmetrical smile that pulls up more on the left side of his lips than the other. He reaches up to tousle his hair nervously. You sort of like that you can make James Potter, Patronus Charm extraordinaire, nervous. 

You’re not quite sure at what point your irritation with him ceases and your attraction to him takes hold of your brain, but you find yourself staring at him again. It’s very difficult not to because the dormitory is creating a charged sort atmosphere with the embers of the fire dying away and the low light casting soft shadows around the room. Your skin feels warm, on edge, but not uncomfortable. The prickle of anticipation roves across it like an electric current.

He looks at you expectantly. “Are you okay?” he murmurs in a low voice. It’s an appealing sound, you think. Everything James Potter does is bloody appealing.

You nod, but can’t look away from his face, his hazel eyes transfixed on your green ones. You feel like you have lost the ability to think rationally, let alone speak. His hands twitch, like he wants to reach out and touch you but is resisting. You wish you knew the words to tell him to give in. 

“Well, we could-,” he whispers, and then pauses to wait for your reaction.

You somehow force the part of your brain responsible for speech production to recommence operation. “Could what?” 

It comes out very shakily and you suck in a deep breath to try to settle yourself. Something in your stomach is fluttering violently and you’re convinced you might be on the edge of a panic attack. 

“We could make a memory,” he breathes, hair now terribly ruffled from his nervousness. He looks as if he can’t quite believe what he’s saying; what’s about to happen.

“What do you mean?” you ask stupidly, and as if drawn like a magnet, your body involuntarily leans closer to him. 

He stops fighting his hands and reaches out with one of them to touch your face, cupping your jaw in the palm of his hand. The hazel eyes bore into you again with some kind of anxious expectation, trying to read you. You’re not sure what signals you are giving right now but you dearly hope they’re the right ones.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs again, openly staring at your lips as if entranced.

“Okay-” you start, but before you have time to register what you’re agreeing to, his lips are on yours and your conscious mind lapses into total uselessness.

It starts gentle, teasing, testing, exploring. He grazes his lips across yours and then leans into you, deepening the kiss. You find one of your hands wandering to the nape of his neck, fingers feeling electrified against his warm skin, the other trying to steady yourself on the couch. 

It turns more hungry, more desperate quite quickly and without really thinking about anything except the desire to be _closer_ and to touch him, you crawl onto his lap, knees planted on either side of him. His hands find your back and your waist, pushing your shirt and jumper up slightly to feel your skin and your body curves in response.

You’re absolutely coming undone as his tongue does unspeakable things in your mouth, sliding wet and hot against yours as you involuntarily press into him and he moans softly into the kiss. It has to be the most delicious noise you can recall hearing come from James Potter’s mouth and, as he starts to draw his lips away slightly, you lunge back in for more.

He holds you close as his lips ravage you, as if you’re a vital source of energy he needs to survive. Breathing erratically you gasp as his lips break away from yours and move to your neck, mercilessly trailing kisses down the skin and gently sucking on the place where the neck and shoulders meet. Your body feels as if it’s on _fire_ , warm, pliant, completely submissive and yet ravenously wanting more. 

It has to be a good ten minutes of all-out snogging before you pull away. You sit back in his lap, breathing laboured and raspy. He stares at you in abject adoration, hazel eyes wide like something very good has happened but he can’t quite believe it’s real.

A thought comes to you and you reach for your wand. He flinches instantaneously. You have a vague recollection of threatening to hex him if he ever dared to try to kiss you, but that’s not important right now.

“Lily I'm-” he begins, pushing himself backwards as much as he can, notwithstanding that you’re quite literally sitting on top of him. 

You ignore him, allowing the feeling of euphoria to fill you up and steady yourself.

It turns out, James Potter is _really_ good at snogging. As soon as you speak the incantation the thin silvery wisps of a Patronus solidify, becoming fully fledged and taking form in front of your eyes. 

James lets out a noise which sounds like he has choked on his tongue.

In the middle of the room shines the most dazzling animal you have ever seen. A doe, long limbed, lithe and ethereal with orb-like eyes. You feel a rush of affection like a proud parent.

It’s _beautiful_.

You look back at James for some sort of congratulation but his eyes are as wide as the doe’s and he looks, probably for the first time in his life, lost for words.

“What? Do you still believe I can’t do it?” you tease, grinning at his thunderstruck expression.

His face transforms, lips parting into the widest, most breathtaking smile you’ve ever seen him wear. He looks like he’s just won ten million galleons. You’re a bit confused by the enthusiasm, surely it isn’t _that_ shocking you have been able to produce a Patronus.

Then he reaches for his wand, breathes the incantation and the silver stag materialises, galloping around the top of your head to join the shimmering doe near the window.

You both stare for a second, transfixed by the sight, before the silvery forms dissipate and you come back to your senses, pushing him back onto the couch.

“Potter, you ruined my Patronus!” You exclaim, probably bursting his eardrum in the process. 

The stupid, radiant smile remains fixed on his face as he looks up at you. You could be beating him to a pulp right now and he would probably enjoy it.

“I-I thought of snogging you and so it just took the complementary form of your one!” you continue, confused irritation washing over you.

He laughs and (dangerously, in your opinion) reaches up to your face to run his hands down your cheek, cupping your jaw again as he stares at you.

“I can’t determine your Patronus for you, Lily,” he says, still grinning in a way that must make his cheeks hurt. 

“Well then why-” you start, and can’t quite find the words to finish the question. You try and think of what the book resting somewhere near the end of the couch has taught you.

“Your Patronus is a reflection of your innermost personality, for starters,” he says. “So unless you think I really affect you _that_ much-”

You scowl at him and he laughs, lifting his hand off your cheek and running it down your arm fondly.

“You can-” he begins again, and then stops himself, looking at you uncertainly. 

“I can change it?” you ask, sounding a bit too hopeful.

He laughs again and looks away, almost shyly.

“According to Miranda Goshawk,” he says (when James Potter ever actually bothered to read Miranda Goshawk, you’re not sure), “your Patronus can sometimes change to the complementary form of someone else’s if you go through some sort of emotional upheaval.”

You furrow your brow. “Emotional upheaval?”

He looks back at you, lips quirking into a familiar smirk. “Well, in the words of Miranda,” he replies, “if the caster falls into an eternal, unchanging love, for example.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. He grins back at you so you hit him over the head with a pillow.

He grins even more.


	6. Savage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things. Firstly, I absolutely despise the orignal version of this chapter. For some unknown reason, 19 year old me decided to write Aurelia Vance's character as a vapid, idiotic, flirtatious creature whose only purpose in the story was to make Lily jealous. I'm legitimately so disappointed that I would create such a character and insinuate that because she was friendly to James, she was automatically a dirty flirt, stupid and worthless. Ergh. I think it goes without saying that I rectified that part.
> 
> Secondly, please don't @ me for my Wuthering Heights references. Being totally honest I've only read the text once and the opinions expressed by James and Lily are not necessarily my opinions!

So you snogged James Potter. It didn’t mean the whole school had to find out about it, but of course they did.

The very next morning, James leaves for breakfast before you wake up. Why he leaves uncharacteristically early becomes abundantly clear once you step into the Great Hall because Sirius Black gives you the most infuriating grin you have ever seen on his annoyingly handsome face.

James notices Sirius staring at you and tugs on his arm roughly but it does nothing to dissuade him. Instead, he lifts a thin finger and beckons you over. Remus does nothing abnormal because he has a maturity level in alignment with his age. Peter wiggles an eyebrow at you suggestively. 

“Evans,” Sirius says, as James suddenly becomes very interested in his pumpkin juice. “I heard about your study session last night. It sounded _very_ productive.”

You snort. “I’m surprised you can even put ‘study’ and ‘productive’ in the same sentence, Black. Aren’t you allergic to doing work?”

Peter sniggers and Sirius smirks. He likes this tit-for-tat far too much.

“I might not study, Evans,” he replies in his haughty tone, “but somehow I still manage to best you. How is that?”

James, still refusing to look at you, now appears very busy rummaging around in his bag. You resist the urge to hit him over the head for telling Sirius _everything_. 

“Pure luck, I expect,” you retort, scowling.

Sirius twirls his wand between his fingers with an air of nonchalance, “maybe you should be spending your nights studying your Patronus Charm rather than snogging Potter. I’d hate to think he’s distracting you.”

You just about butt in, but then you cotton on. James _has_ told them about the kiss, but not about the uncannily similar Patronuses. Well, at least some things are sacred.

“Sirius, the day you care about my academic achievements I’ll eat my own wand,” you reply, narrowing your eyes further. Remus looks up, amusement evident on his face as he shoves Peter in the side. Peter cackles so hard he falls off the bench.

Sirius bites his lip and cocks an eyebrow as if this is a suggestive remark. James stares resolutely at the floor, but you see him cringe.

“What about James’?” Sirius smirks, laughter at the edge of his lips.

“What?” you ask, genuinely perplexed.

“James’ _wand_ ,” Sirius replies, unable to control himself as he bursts into laughter, “would you eat that?” 

Peter, no longer on the bench, cackles from the other side of the table.

Gross. Equal parts embarrassment and unequivocal disgust at Sirius Black lead you to roughly grasp an entire pitcher of pumpkin juice from the table and lift it menacingly above his head. Remus covers his eyes with his hands and peers through his fingers.

“Evans! You walked into it!,” Sirius tries to exclaim as the entire pitcher ends up covering him in orange, sticky liquid. It goes all over James as well, which to be honest, you’re not sorry about. Sirius gags and shakes his head as bits of pumpkin flesh go flying.

Literally every single head, including Professor McGonagall who does not look impressed, turns towards you, holding the pitcher, and Sirius, looking like a bedraggled tangerine. For a minute, you think you might have finally made Sirius look like an idiot. Then he opens his mouth.

“POTTER SNOGGED EVANS,” he exclaims to the entire Great Hall, his grey eyes vindictive. “POTTER RAVISHED EVANS WITH HIS LIPS AND SHE LIKED IT!”

You could not get out of there fast enough.

~.~

An hour later and after a severe dressing down from Professor McGonagall (“I expect Sirius Black to act in that fashion, not the Head Girl!”) you are leaning over your bubbling cauldron. Your hair caught fire to it not two minutes previously and it’s still slightly smoking. So far, it’s turning out to be a fabulous day.

One would expect James Potter to try to address the pumpkin juice saga _or_ the fact that he decided to kiss and tell to Sirius-sodding-Black, but so far he is avoiding you like a bad case of dragon pox. It may be pathetic, but for the first time in your life you find yourself wishing that he would just acknowledge your existence. 

Unfortunately, he’s not. He’s focussed on his potions partner, Aurelia Vance, who is an extremely pretty and intelligent Ravenclaw. The reason your hair has very nearly been burned off your head is that you can’t stop covertly looking at them from across the room. James is leaning over the cauldron, flushed from the heat emitting from it, looking slightly bothered but laughing all the same. Aurelia Vance is also extremely funny, apparently.

She’s chopping ginger root next to him, probably into perfectly equal slices, her long, shiny curls draping over her face. Rumour in the girls bathrooms is that she has Veela heritage and honestly, you would believe it. You feel a rush of completely unwarranted irritation towards her. How dare she exist and be engaging, smart and James Potter’s potions partner. You swear the universe is colluding against you today.

At the end of the class, Professor Slughorn examines the variety of potions that have been created. Despite the fact that everyone is working from the same instructions, the results are remarkably different. 

To your immense delight, Sirius Black’s potion looks like green-brown porridge with bits of Bezoar stuck in it, which is amusing because Bezoars aren’t a prescribed ingredient. Peter Pettigrew (Merlin knows how he made it to NEWT level), who for reasons known to everyone in the room fails to find someone to partner with, concocts some sort of tar-like substance. Slughorn tries to swirl the ladle and finds that he physically cannot move it. 

Frowning, he moves on.

He looks with uncertainty at your cauldron until he catches sight of Marlene lurking in the background and smiles, kindly. “Nice of you to let Ms McKinnon have a turn today, Ms Evans,” he says jovially. “Next time remember to stir more briskly, Ms McKinnon. That should do the trick!”

You don’t bother to try and correct him. Marlene is very cross with you.

Avery and Severus produce a brilliant green potion and receive full marks. Unsurprisingly, so do Potter and Vance. 

Aside from that, you learn nothing the entire lesson except that Aurelia Vance is a goddess amongst mere mortals and you are an extraordinarily jealous individual.

~.~

Your day goes from bad to very bad. Professor Dromatious makes the huge mistake of pairing you with Peter Pettigrew in Defence Against the Dark Arts. You’re working on blocking and stunning in preparation for the more basic component of your NEWT examination.

It is a grievous error. Already on edge from the pumpkin juice incident, McGonagall’s lecturing and a sub-par potions result, you also have to contend with Potter’s continual avoidance of acknowledging your existence, which is oddly starting to really wind you up. 

You’re flustered (something that is obvious because your cheeks are about as red as your hair) and to be frank, Peter looks terrified staring across at you. You suppose the irritated energy is quite frightening to a five-foot-six marauder. “Take it easy,” he pleads, as Dromatious assigns you to be a stunner and Peter to be a blocker.

Peter lasts less than a second. His reaction time is truly awful and he ends up having to be laid down in the corner of the classroom with Remus watching over him, completely out cold.

“Savage, Evans,” Sirius remarks, looking at Peter pitifully.

“I’ll savage you in a minute,” you mutter under your breath. 

Dromatious waves a hand and tells you to switch partners. To Potter. For the first time that day, he meets your eye with a guilty expression. “Alright, Evans?” he mutters, eyes widening in perceptible trepidation.

“Never better,” you respond, teeth feeling like they’ve been glued together by a Gobstopper. 

Dromatious instructs the class to continue blocking and stunning. You feel as if a bundle of fireworks could spontaneously combust inside of you.

Your reflexes are usually slower than Potter’s, so you expect him to be able to block your stunning easily. Today, he falters a bit. You might have also cheated by failing to wait for him to be prepared before you start sending red jets in his direction. He doesn’t manage the incantation in time, but he does jump to the side quickly enough to miss it.

The class suddenly becomes extremely interested in the Evans and Potter duel that’s about to unfold. In your peripherals, you notice that everyone has become totally disengaged with whatever their partner is doing and are instead focussing on Potter’s response.

His eyebrows just about shoot off his forehead but he springs back into position and glares at you. You only just manage to get the _Protego_ out of your mouth in time to block the returning spell, but his reflexes kick into gear as you venture _slightly_ beyond the mandated coursework. 

Before you know it, hexes, jinxes and curses which are definitely not stunning spells are flying back and forth between the two of you. It’s a bit dangerous but it’s also quite cathartic, in your opinion.

You manage to block a particularly nasty _furnunculus_ curse which would have resulted in some terrible boils before shooting back a stinging jinx.

He cops it on the thigh and hops on one foot for a second, but manages to block your _impedimenta_ jinx successfully before finding his mark with a stickfast hex. The fact that you now cannot move your lower body doesn’t deter you from sending a few choice hexes back his way, just missing the mark with the bat-bogey one which would have been a fantastic look for him.

Professor Dromatious is yelling something that you assume is along the lines of reminding you that you were only asked to stun and block. You suppose he can’t really intervene without getting caught in the fray and it looks as if one of us might try and A-K the other at any second.

Sirius Black, sensing a _slight_ problem, manages to break it up by grabbing James roughly around the collar, whispering something that sounds awfully like “ _severe issues_ ,” and laughing everything off.

Potter forces a little laugh as well and messes up his hair in his trademark fashion. It covers his frustration convincingly enough.

Professor Dromatious has never looked so pleased with Sirius in his life. 

~.~

Dinner passes without significance, which for a day like today is an achievement. You catch Severus’ eyes briefly as you slip past the Slytherin table to leave the Great Hall. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, anymore. He just bores into you with those disconcerting black eyes. You suppose being a Mudblood is bad enough. Cavorting with James Potter is just the icing on the rancid cake, in his opinion. 

The dormitory is empty by the time you get there. It’s still light outside, but you don’t feel like doing anything social. Instead, you dig around in your trunk for a novel you haven’t yet read this year and flop yourself onto the couch.

Try as you might to concentrate on the book, it isn’t until James walks through the portrait hole three hours later that you realise you’ve barely made it through ten pages. He looks at you uncertainly, like you might try and curse him again, and says “Hi.”

You frown at him over the top of the page and don’t return the greeting. It’s immature, but you’ve had a day.

He deposits himself on the opposite end of the couch and peers over at the cover. “Yuck,” he says, crinkling his nose at it.

You move the cover slightly to the left so he comes into view. “What? Not enough action in the classics for you, Potter?”

“Nothing wrong with the classics, Evans,” he says, crossing his arms, “but Wuthering Heights is full of awful characters who make stupid decisions, regret them and then get haunted for the rest of their life.”

“Maybe for someone who is incapable of reading with nuance,” you respond hotly, putting the book down on the ground so you can cross your arms in an imitation of his own. 

He scoffs. “What, are you going to tell me you _enjoy_ reading about Heathcliff?”

“He’s a tragic character!” you exclaim. “He’s abused in his childhood and suffers the loss of the love of his life because he isn’t wealthy enough.”

James looks at you incredulously. “He’s also vindictive and cruel. If anyone deserves to be haunted it’s Heathcliff. If you’re looking for a real tragedy, try Isabella.”

“What? Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, how horrible,” you retort.

“She falls in love with someone who marries her in a plot for revenge!” James exclaims, more passionate than you’ve ever seen him in any Hogwarts subject. To be fair, he has a point.

“Well Heathcliff dies from a broken heart-” you start, unsure why you’re trying to defend Heathcliff, who you are well aware isn’t a particularly good person.

“He also digs up Catherine’s body,” James points out, a little more calmly. “I’d say he lost the plot well before the broken heart bit.”

Another fairly good point, you think. “Ok, you have a point. But what about Cathy?”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re agreeing with me?”

You mumble something about the posthumous extraction and the knife-throwing and James looks very smug. 

“Cathy’s an idiot, isn’t she?” he asks, baiting your opinion.

You frown and bite your bottom lip. “She saw herself as Heathcliff’s equal before she got bitten by that dog and ended up at the Linton’s,” you say. “Then all of a sudden Heathcliff is so far beneath her that marrying him would be degrading.”

James gives you a satisfied look. “Ergo, an idiot.”

“That’s a very simplified analysis,” you reply, narrowing your eyes again.

“But it is simple,” he says, patiently, looking pensive. “Anyone who thinks someone else is beneath them because of their blood or their heritage is an idiot.”

All of a sudden, it doesn’t seem like you’re talking about Wuthering Heights anymore. You both lapse into an uncertain silence that stretches across the couch between you. You’re not really sure what the most appropriate response is.

He clears his throat. “Hey, I just wanted to apologise, you know, for Sirius and all that.” He takes a deep breath and waits for your response, hazel eyes searching your own.

“Are you apologising for blabbing to him? Or for him being a giant prat about it?” you ask, uncrossing your left arm and using it to fiddle with the small stud in your earlobe.

James smiles, hesitantly. “Both, I suppose.”

“And there was no way you could have told me this earlier?” you ask, thinking about how that very incident had set off a chain of events that had culminated in a very bad day.

The bottom of his lip curls downwards slightly and he runs a hand through his hair. “I thought maybe I should let you cool off for a bit. Although I think you made it abundantly clear you were _not_ cool when you tried to duel me.”

“Tried to?” you say, disbelief evident in your voice, “I _did_ duel you, Potter.”

He nods and a small smile forms on his lips again. “You are a formidable opponent, Evans.”

You admit, you’re having to try very hard to remain angry. The quirk of his lips and the warm affection in his eyes melt away your irritation. It’s difficult to remember why you were ever put out by him in the first place. Of course, it has very little to do with Sirius Black and everything to do with the fact that you just don’t do well with being ignored by James Potter. 

“Don’t ignore me again, please,” you say, almost without meaning to. “I singed part of my hair off in potions this morning.”

He looks shocked by this revelation and laughs, crawling forward on the couch slightly to inspect the end of your hair that is definitely singed and sort of smells like fire.

“Horrifying,” he agrees, pushing back to his end of the couch. Then his expression turns pensive again as he asks, “Lily, you weren't...you know?”

You think you do know what he means, but you’re not sure you want to answer properly. “Know what?” 

He sighs, grappling with the words, “You know what I mean,” he says in a pleading tone, hazel eyes searching you again. 

Completely unhelpfully, you remain silent and stare back at him. For a very opinionated person, it turns out that you’re oddly conflict-avoidant.

“Lily, I was under the impression that you didn't want my attention,” he begins, one hand running through his hair again anxiously. “It didn’t occur to me that you would mind being left alone for a day. I thought you found me a bit irritating, to be honest.” 

You bite your lower lip again to stop yourself from laughing. “You are more than a bit irritating, James.”

He pouts playfully from the other end of the couch. “I knew it.”

You roll your eyes in response. “I admit, you grew on me.”

“Oh?” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Tell me more?”

You shake your head and he grins mischievously in response. Spurred on by your admission that, at the very least, you don’t find him as irritating as you once did, he crawls forward again and settles himself on the couch beside your stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “Please?” he asks.

You run your hand over your lips in a zipping motion and he grins and pokes you in the ribs. It doesn’t take long for tickling to become kissing and all of a sudden you find yourself wrapped up in his arms and thanking Merlin and Morgana that such a delicious human wants to ravish you back.

Everything about James Potter intoxicates you in close proximity. His hair, soft and pliant threads easily through your fingers as you encourage him to deepen the kiss. His smell envelops you in a mix of citrus and sandalwood that is so captivating and yet so familiar. His hands, light and warm on your cheek anchor you to him; the frantic, desperate energy flowing from his skin to yours.

It’s so exhilarating and yet so natural. Like you’ve been waiting your entire life to snog James Potter absolutely senseless and you just never knew it. There’s something about the way in which your lips move against his that’s so effortless, so in sync that it feels as if you have been doing this for years, not days. It’s confusing and yet makes so much sense at the same time. 

He smiles against your lips and pulls away to look at you.

“You’re going to kill me, Evans,” he says, pressing his lips against yours for another searing kiss.

You look back up at him, flushed and radiant. A thought comes to you. “Ask me,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Ask you what?”

You look intently at him in response. Surely he can remember that he’s been pestering you to go to Hogsmeade with him every year for the last four years.

Apparently, he can’t.

“James?” you ask, pressing your lips to the corner of each of his.

“Mm?” he replies, as you start to kiss your way to his jawbone.

“Will-you-go-out-with-me?” you ask, punctuating each word with a kiss down his neck.

You hear a breathy laugh escape him as he gazes down at you. “I thought I was already going out with you,” he says, feigning seriousness.

You furrow your brow slightly. “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

He laughs again, dropping his lips to your forehead before looking at you through the curtain of dark lashes. “Yes, Lily. A thousand times yes.”

He captures your lips with his again as you reflect on the fact that you’re now in the dangerous vocation of being James Potter’s girlfriend. You better get used to Sirius Black.


	7. Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to extend this story for another chapter because I was supposed to be fixing up the next original part but then this idea popped into my head and I just wrote it. It's not as playful and fun as the preceding chapters but there's a bloody war going on right now, kids! Something dramatic has to happen!
> 
> I have always been intrigued as to how James and Lily defied Voldemort three times. I just can't imagine Voldemort coveting a muggle born, no matter how brilliant Lily was. However, I can definitely imagine Snape trying to protect Lily and trying to find any avenue to achieve that end. This is what I came up with for the first denial.
> 
> Further, I know they've been bickering and making out for like three chapters in a row and I SWEAR something different is coming in the next chapter (I know this because, like every other chapter, I've already written it. It just needs a shit load of fixing).

In late May, things are slightly off kilter. The world you thought you knew has tilted a little too far on its axis and feels unstable, unsettling. Surprisingly, it has little to do with what is going on inside the castle grounds, and a lot to do with the perceived purity of one’s blood. This war started years ago with disappearances, werewolf attacks and Ministers of Magic mysteriously abandoning their office well before you ever made it to Hogwarts. However everything has turned _darker_ somehow in the last couple of months, despite inching closer to summer, and you’re not even sure what your priorities are anymore other than staying away from certain Slytherins and making sure James does, too.

James, as it turns out, is not the easiest individual to keep safe. Not that he isn’t capable of looking after himself. You just know that you do a better, more rational job of it. He stumbles through the portrait hole one night looking suspiciously tender in the right hand. Under questioning it eventuates that Walter Wilkes and Evan Rosier jumped out at him from somewhere on the fourth-floor corridor (you question how it is possible to “jump out” at someone in a corridor which is totally devoid of any hiding places, but James has always been stunningly unobservant). Surprisingly, he tells you that Wilkes and Rosier didn’t want to practice their questionable spell work in a duel. They had a proposition.

In effect, they made James the very generous offer of joining them in the ranks of the junior Death Eaters, in the service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It must have come as a shock when James turned them down, because after that they allegedly threw in sweetener. Although it was unprecedented, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was apparently willing to offer _you_ , a muggle born, a spot in the exclusive club (although you’re fairly sure they referred to you as something other than a ‘muggle born’). 

Seemingly forgetting that he is a wizard and has a wand, James punched Rosier in the face.

When James tells you the story, you laugh. It is unthinkable that a wizard who fashions himself on the idea that purebloods are inherently superior to subservient muggles and muggle borns would even consider accepting one of them into his ranks. James is intelligent, pureblood and wealthy, three things which you have no doubt the Death Eaters covet. But you? You have next to nothing that they profess to be a desirable trait, even if you are relatively bright. 

The thought has you utterly perplexed until Severus grabs your arms after your final potions lesson and pulls you into an abandoned classroom. You stare at him, incredulously. This is the first time in almost two years that you come face to face, and a sick mixture of anxiety and irritation washes over you. 

“Potter clearly hasn’t learned to control his temper,” he snaps, glaring at you. “Rosier still has a blood nose.”

Charming, you think. He’s really doing well to butter you up for whatever he wants to ask. Apparently social niceties are unnecessary in the circumstances. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask, crossing your arms defensively. 

“Aren’t you able to teach your dog to heel?” he sneers, black eyes cold and taunting. 

James must be rubbing off on you because you have to fight quite hard not to smack Severus across his face. Instead, jaw clenched to avoid yelling, you turn on your heel and wrench open the door to leave.

“Wait!” Severus calls from over your shoulder, a slight hint of desperation flickering in his tone. He strides quickly to the doorway in your moment of hesitation and blocks your progress. 

“I’m sorry,” he says brusquely, poking his head around the doorframe to check the surroundings. 

When he turns back to you in the doorway, his features briefly resemble those of the boy that you once knew from Spinner’s End. Trustworthy, curious and, above all, desperate for your approval. “I just _hate_ that he’s managed to convince you to...never mind,” he trails off, casting his eyes downward.

“Severus, I made my own decision,” you say. You mean for it to sound firm, but your voice is gentler than before. His eyes snap up to meet yours at the sound of his name. You realise it’s the first time you’ve said it in some time and it sounds foreign on your lips, like speaking of someone who died a long time ago.

He sighs deeply, his frustration evident. “I just don’t understand why it has to be _him_ ,” he says, bitterly, “anyone but _him_ Lily. He’s cruel and arrogant and he’ll ruin you.”

He looks at you beseechingly and you feel like you’re drowning in a weird mix of nostalgia and fear. Fear because there is a possibility that Severus may be right about James, either in whole or in part, and his track record would support that theory. You’re also acutely aware that there isn’t much room in the doorway that sandwiches you both. Before the fifth year incident, before the day that he called you a Mudblood, being so close to Severus wouldn’t have felt odd. Now that you have grown apart, the proximity is deeply uncomfortable. 

“I can look after myself,” you say, but it’s almost a whisper and it doesn’t match the sentiment.

Severus smiles sadly at you. “You don’t have to Lily. Let me protect you, please.”

You’ve arrived at the crux of the conversation and suddenly Rosier and Wilkes’ offer makes complete and total sense. Severus, for reasons which are not entirely clear, has interceded on your behalf. You’re no exceptional muggle born that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will tolerate for the sake of their talent. Your life is simply a bargaining chip that is being tossed in the ring for someone else's sake.

“You want me to accept Wilkes and Rosier’s offer,” you say evenly. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” he replies. “You need to accept, Lily. It’s the only way.”

You fight for your voice to remain steady. “You would have me accept an offer of immunity, despite the fact that hundreds of other muggle borns would be destined to a lesser fate?”

He doesn’t flinch at the challenge. “Yes,” he repeats, holding your gaze as if it were the most obvious decision in the world.

You sigh heavily and shake your head. “I understand why you made me the offer, Severus. But you have to know that I cannot accept that my life means more than anyone else in my position.”

Before he can respond, you edge past him and turn to walk away, down the cold dungeon corridor. Instead, you come face to face with James Potter who is suspiciously shoving a piece of old looking parchment down his robes. He spies Severus in the doorway and his features darken.

“Snape,” he says bitterly, wand hand diving into his pocket. You look back at Severus who is far too quick and already has his own wand drawn, pointing at James’ forehead.

You grab James’ arm roughly and wheel him around with you, frowning over your shoulder at Severus. “Don’t be an idiot,” you growl at James as you usher him quickly out of the corridor and into the lower level of the Grand Staircase. 

“What were you doing down there with him?” James demands, as soon as the door closes behind you. You ignore him and start taking the stairs, thankful that every other year level is in class and therefore unable to hear the inevitable bickering that is about to ensue.

“Lily!” James hisses, able to keep up with your fast pace by virtue of his much longer legs. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that Rosier and Wilkes made you that offer on the basis that Severus had asked for _special dispensation_ on my behalf?” you snap back, somehow managing to be angry at him despite how out of breath you are.

“Why is it relevant?” James retorts, irritably. “Are you going to accept because _Severus_ told you to?”

A frustrated sound escapes your lips and you whip around to face him, bailing him up against the marble bannister. “You think I would do something simply because Snape asked me to do it?”

James, momentarily mollified by the fact that you use Severus’ surname, looks taken aback. “Well I hope you wouldn’t-” 

You give him a scathing look and turn to continue up the staircase. 

“Lily, wait!” he calls after you, scrambling up the stairs, two at a time until you reach the portrait hole and push through it. You breathe through your nose to try and steady yourself. Merlin knows you’re hopelessly unfit, but James Potter doesn’t need to know that.

“Severus wanted to reiterate why I should accept Rosier and Wilkes’ offer,” you say, after catching your breath. “Obviously, I didn’t accept,” you add, scowling at him. You feel completely drained of energy and it has nothing to do with the impending NEWT examinations, the copious amount of study or the fact that your boyfriend is also your slightly unhinged stalker.

“Did you punch him though?” James asks, a small smile flickering on the edges of his lips.

You try very hard to keep your disdainful expression breaking into a grin. It’s only partially successful and he senses your weakness, takes a step closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. The warm, comforting embrace envelops you and you feel all your irritation at him melt away as he presses a small kiss on your forehead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long.

“I saw that you were still in the dungeons with him and I was worried,” he murmurs into your hair. Despite the sentiment, something in that sentence doesn’t sit right with you, and you quickly realise why.

“Hang on. How did you know I was still in the dungeons with Severus?” you ask, tilting your head to look up at him. Your hands, still wrapped around his back, feel him tense slightly. You look up and see his expression is suspiciously sheepish.

“I mean, I noticed that you hadn’t come up from the dungeons after potions and I thought-” he starts, fumbling his words slightly.

“But you knew Severus was with me. How did you know that?” you ask, releasing your embrace, stepping back and crossing your arms. 

James looks a bit panicky. “Erm,” he says, biting his lip, “intuition?”

You glare at him and tap your foot. “It’s not a good time to be testing my patience, James Potter.”

“Lily, I can’t tell you!” he whines, looking pained. 

“Why not?” you demand, “if you’re planning to keep me under surveillance you could at least do me the courtesy of explaining how you do it.”

“What’s the point in that?” he asks, weakly. “You’ll work out how to evade me.”

“James, I swear on Godric’s grave I will slip you Veritaserum if I have to,” you snap, knowing full well you don’t have a hope in hell of obtaining a controlled substance.

Apparently, James also knows it. “I can’t,” he says, looking dejected. “It’s complicated, trust me.” Strangely, it appears as if he actually wants to tell you, but can’t bring himself to do it. 

“I wish you would trust _me_ ,” you say pointedly, feeling a little guilty about the obvious blow below the belt.

“I do trust you, Lily,” James replies softly. “But you’re asking me to tell you something that involves someone else’s secret, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to betray them in my desperate attempt to smooth things over with you.” He smiles ruefully. 

You narrow your eyes but you can feel your frustration waning. It feels wrong to be angry at him when he’s trying to do something honourable. James has always been a fiercely loyal friend, even when he was at his worst, and you can’t fault him for that.

“Are you _ever_ going to be able to tell me your secrets?” you ask dramatically, flinging yourself onto the couch. 

“I’ll tell you all of _my_ secrets right now,” he replies, smiling down at you. “What do you want to know?”

A thought comes to you. “Where do you sneak off to every so often when you don’t come back until dawn?” you ask, expectantly.

James smirks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Sorry Lily, that’s a Marauder secret.”

You frown. “When do I get to know those ones? Can I be inducted?”

James smiles more broadly. “Sirius says I can tell you,” he explains, “but only after we’re married.”

You roll your eyes. You have a feeling that Sirius Black told James that long ago, when the idea of Lily Evans marrying James Potter was extremely far fetched. “Are we getting married?” you ask. “Funny way to propose.”

He smirks and picks up his Head Boy badge from the low table next to the couch. Unlike yours, his badge has been sitting there untouched the majority of the year, probably worn less than five times in total. You watch, perplexed as he transfigures it into a small, golden ring and flops onto the couch next to you.

“Hand please,” he says, holding out his own. 

“You can’t be serious,” you exclaim, pulling your left hand further away from him. He laughs and reaches over to grasp your right hand and slips the transfigured badge onto your ring finger. 

“Hate to break it to you,” you say, flexing your fingers and appraising the thin gold band, “but you’re only engaged if it’s on the left hand.”

He cocks and eyebrow in response. “Lily please, I’ve been planning to marry you since I was twelve. I think I know which hand it has to go on.”

“Do you ever wonder if you’re a bit weirdly obsessed with me?” you ask, turning to face him and rubbing your neck absentmindedly.

He laughs in response. “I reconciled myself with that fact years ago. The hard part is getting you to realise how obsessed you are with me, too.”


	8. Examination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that this chapter is a little jarring compared to the seriousness of the last one! I decided to leave it in because truthfully, it's one of the only chapters in the original story that has a base strong enough to (largely) maintain. That being said, it did take a lot of editing. For some reason I developed an obsession with semi-colons during this period and I'm not even joking when I say that one of these chapters had FORTY semi-colons in two thousand words. FORTY. Who needs forty semi-colons?!
> 
> Also, I relate to James in this chapter. I spent six years at university, did everything at the last minute and distracted all my friends in the process. Sometimes, you just need a healthy dose of panic to get things done.

Defence Against the Dark Arts 

If you didn’t know any better, you would have said the universe was conspiring against you in June. It was the perfect application of Murphy’s Law, really. Reports of daily disappearances were pouring into the castle, Rosier and Wilkes were trying to extract revenge on James at any possible opportunity, your mum had written to say your dad was in hospital with a kidney infection and you were wondering whether you should just convince them both to go on an extended holiday to Antarctica for the foreseeable future. The one thing that was completely unaffected by the insidious gloom that was slowly descending around you were the NEWT examinations. NEWTs waited for no self-proclaimed Dark Lord, apparently. 

For two weeks, the stress turns you into an irritable insomniac. Your hair is barely ever in a reasonable state and you occasionally forget to brush your teeth before collapsing into bed. Every night, while you lie awake reciting the twelve uses of Dragon Blood and the incantation for the Protean Charm, you question your decision to take six NEWTs rather than five. You only really need five, but when did Lily Evans ever back away from a challenge? 

On the contrary to your sleep deprivation and generally sour demeanour, James becomes uncharacteristically energetic and spritely. Not that he hasn’t always been energetic and spritely. He’s just taken it to an unfathomable new level. Seventh-year James Potter outstrips previous-year James Potters in a maturity stakes by a very wide margin, but June brings back all the pestering and pranking and general puerility with a new vigour.

James (and Sirius for that matter) develop a mantra before the NEWT season. The mantra, in essence, is that if one does no study, then one will pass the NEWTs with flying colours. This mantra doesn’t appear to have general application to the student body, but that doesn’t stop them from trying their hardest to be as disruptive and distracting as possible at any given moment.

It’s not so bad when you can evade them by escaping to the library. However there comes a time each night when James is cooped up with you, and with no one else to focus his boundless attention on, he becomes increasingly irritating. 

The night before your first exam, you’re spread out on the floor, Defence Against the Dark Arts texts and essays littered around you, practicing non-verbal shield charms. James has decided that now is a good time to rifle through your trunk. The architects of the castle made a grievous error, in your opinion, in assuming that Head Boys could be trusted to be mature enough not to require a sliding staircase. 

“When were you ever going to wear _these_?” he asks, holding out a pair of brown, mid-calf boots. You wore them to Hogsmeade all of one time and they have the smallest block heel known to mankind, but James apparently believes them to be stimulating. You wonder what he would think if he saw the red PVC platform clogs that Marlene bought last summer. They look like a recipe for breaking an ankle, to you. 

Choosing to ignore him, so as not to encourage his bad behaviour, you turn back to your incantations.

“Lily,” he calls impatiently, apparently requiring a response.

All he really wants is a spot of your attention, but you’re steadfastly not going to give it to him. Instead, you flick a curtain of burnt, red hair over your shoulder and put all your effort into strengthening your shield charm. It’s awfully difficult with someone pestering you, but if you can do it with an insolent James Potter in the room, you can do it in any NEWT examination.

“Lily,” he tries again, emphasising the 'y' in the whiniest voice he can muster.

You turn a page in the textbook so demonstratively and aggressively that you tear it slightly from the spine.

You only have a second to frown, before you feel something hit your head and rebound with a dull thud. Your skin prickles and your right hand reflexively tightens its grip on your wand as you whirl around.

James Potter lobs another shoe at you.

You lunge.

~.~

Alchemy 

The next day, James emerges through the portrait hole, hopping. He’s fresh back from the prefect’s bathroom, fully dressed but missing a sock on his left foot.

“Lily!” he exclaims, scrambling through the portrait hole and grasping the back of the couch for support.

For the first time in your life, hearing your name is wearing very, _very_ thin. At one stage, you thought it was an improvement from 'Evans', which you had been subjected to for six years of your school life. At present, you would rather be living with a mute. You fix him with a withering look.

“I need your help,” he says with what appears to be sincerity, shifting his weight on his right leg as he looks at you pleadingly.

“What?” you ask, exasperated.

He points to a spot just over your right shoulder, where a lone sock lies not ten metres away from him.

“You're a wizard, James,” you deadpan, as you turn back to him. 

“So?” he asks.

“Summon it?” you say, grimacing in a manner that you hope conveys a wish to be _left alone_. 

“I can’t,” he says, “I left my wand in my trunk.”

“Well you hopped all the way here,” you point out, turning back to your Alchemy text, “best of luck with the journey ahead.”

“Lily,” he whines, “please help.”

You look up from the textbook with an incredulous expression. “Just put your foot down James, what in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

“It's cold!” he protests.

“It’s June, James. Put your blasted foot down, walk like a normal person and go put the sock on!”

“I can't!”

“Why?”

“Because then I would lose.”

“Are you five years old?!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up to indicate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. 

“It’s cold and the floor is lava Lily. It cannot be touched without adequate foot protection,” he says, in a way that seems sincere but simply cannot be.

You feel like your eyes are popping out of your head. “Lava is _hot_!” you exclaim, still unsure how exactly this is considered an important conversation.

He shakes his head. “I can't touch it.”

“For the love of Merlin’s bloody beard,” you snap, reluctantly pushing yourself up to standing and dragging your feet over to the sock. You bend down, snatch up the offending piece of cotton and turn around to catch James’ eyes quickly flitting back up to your face.

He grins sheepishly at you. “Lily, you have a very nice -,” he begins, but stops when you fix him with a glare that could rival a basilisk. 

“I was going to say back!” he protests.

“You're never getting this sock,” you snarl, pinching it between your forefinger and thumb like a dirty rag.

He just grins triumphantly and puts his foot down onto the lava-cold ground. “How did you think I got the first one on without touching the floor?”

~.~

Potions 

“Lily, what's a telephone?”

“A muggle device used to contact someone in another location.”

“What, like owl post?”

“No.”

“Well, what does a telephone look like?”

“A plastic stick with holes. You hold your ear to one end and talk though the other.”

“Like a straw?”

“No, James.”

“Then where does the sound come from?”

“Wires in the little box the phone is connected to.”

“Where do the wires go?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not an electrician.”

“What's an electrician?”

“The person that does the wiring.”

“But how do you know if someone is trying to use their telephone to get to your telephone?”

“It rings.”

“Rings? What does it sound like?”

“Please be quiet.”

“But how?”

“For the love of-”

“Like a bell?”

“ _P_ _lease_ be quiet for one second in your life.”

“Like a caterwauling charm?”

“I’m not talking to you anymore because I need to do important things like pass my Potions NEWT.”

“But how do the wires know you've stopped talking?”

“James Potter go and do your Muggle Studies revision somewhere that is not here!”

“Lily?”

“...”

“I don't do Muggle Studies.”

~.~

Transfiguration 

If, by some unlikely chance, James had not been a complete pest for the past week and your extreme frustration was entirely a figment of your overactive imagination, today is different. Today James is absolutely feral.

He's tried to distract you over fifteen times in as many minutes, flitting around the dormitory in a ball of anxious energy, picking things up and putting them down mindlessly, pacing from one end to another like a caged bird with nowhere to land.

You try to banish him from the dormitory that morning but reluctantly have to allow him back in. McGonagall corners you after breakfast and explains that she absolutely can’t stand his nonchalant attitude mere hours before the Transfiguration NEWT and has banned him from any area of the castle which does not contain his books. She explains, with a hint of regret, that being Head Girl comes with the responsibility of keeping certain students out of her hair.

Thus, James Potter flaps around the dormitory, knocking things over, singing random tunes under his breath (badly), eating all the cake he stole from the kitchens the preceding night and trying his best to talk to you. 

You have one hour to go.

The thought of transfiguring something complex under exam conditions is making you highly strung as it is. Given the current circumstances, you almost want to tie a sackful of rocks to yourself, get a firm grip of James Potter’s ankle and throw the two of you off the Astronomy tower.

That is _before_ he starts going through your trunk again.

Two seconds later he's standing outside your dormitory door, with your bra in his hand. Your _bra._

You can’t help your reaction. It’s the stress.

You burst into tears.

~.~

Charms 

James is being relatively tolerable today, probably because he still feels bad about the bra incident (which shall never be mentioned again). 

As usual, he is bored. To alleviate this boredom, and in an attempt to be as non-irritating as possible, he seems to be challenging himself to eat an unsightly quantity of food that has been pilfered from the kitchens. 

McGonagall has once again strictly instructed that he must not, under any circumstances, leave your sight. Unfortunately, after yesterday’s clothing incident, he found his way to the Quidditch pitch twenty minutes before the commencement of the Transfiguration exam. 

Inexplicably, on his menu today are three, one litre cartons of plain milk. It’s an odd choice of beverage for someone that doesn’t usually drink milk, you think. This is because James is ‘vulnerable’ to milk, as he calls it, or ‘lactose intolerant’ as you call it. James argues that he prefers not to exclude himself from any food groups.

Milk is not a food group, but you’re not here to argue with him on the merits of dairy. In any case, there's really nothing you can do to stop him from drinking all three cartons. 

The milk is seen again not fifteen minutes later. If the way to a boy's heart is through his stomach, milk isn’t getting a lot of love at the moment.

~.~

Herbology 

Given that it’s the day of your last exam, you decide that you deserve a sleep in. Delicate morning light streams through the window, fanning over your eyelids. In your semi-roused state, you wonder why you left the curtains open last night.

You roll over slightly to mute the sunshine and another thought flickers through you with alarm. Your arm has brushed against something warm in the bed next to you. It’s warm, and it’s breathing.

_Oh Merlin, it's alive._

The bed shifts ominously as the _thing_ rolls over. You can hear its breath, methodical and calm next to you.

Keeping your eyes firmly closed, you momentarily try to convince yourself that if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. 

The heavy, warm thing moves unexpectedly, and a second later, plants a wet kiss right on your cheek. It feels suspiciously like a lick.

You groan. “I hate you, James.”

A foreign voice responds, uncomfortably close to you. “Prongs, she’s so charming in the morning,” it drawls.

You feel as if you jump twenty feet in the air as your eyes burst open, wildly scanning the room.

James doubles over with laughter against the far wall of your dormitory, unfortunately well beyond your reach. Sirius props himself up, leans into his shoulder and smirks across the bed at you.

“Your morning breath is atrocious by the way,” he says.


	9. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original version of this chapter was so weird. Lily was angry for some reason? I couldn't even tell if she really liked James at all? Christ, I hope I don't treat my partner like that - I had some weird ideas about love back then y'all. 
> 
> Lily certainly didn't like Sirius in the original story and that's just something I couldn't stand. Sirius is my spirit animal (even with his case of arrested development) and he's fab. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story so far and given me valuable feedback, especially to @writeringoodfaith. As we can see I have attempted to integrate Peter a little more into this chapter and I think he comes out relatively likeable?

School ends, summer cools into autumn and at some point, Sirius and James have the fabulous idea of moving in together. The only issue is that renting is apparently for vagabonds and the impoverished and if you have a vault at Gringotts with a number above 600, it's actually insulting to suggest that tenancy is an option, apparently. 

One mild night in September, Peter invites you, Alice, Marlene and the Marauders over to his mum's house in Reading for a barbecue (his mum being out of town), and Sirius decides to steal the show by announcing that one of his uncles has left him a disgustingly large inheritance and on a whim, he's bought a house. It's such an irresponsible, rash and quintessentially Sirius Black thing to do that you can't even bring yourself to be critical. Sirius is becoming alarmingly endearing and it surprises you how much you've missed him since Hogwarts; not having anyone to yell at on a daily basis and all that. 

The night goes on and you all ply yourselves steadily with more beer and elf-made wine which James has pilfered from his parent’s stash. At some point  _ someone _ remembers the idea to cohabit like a big Gryffindor commune and Sirius is all too enthusiastic about the idea. Marlene and Alice scoff and tell Sirius that although they adore him, he's likely to wind up being a murder victim rather than a landlord if they're forced to live with him. Sirius doesn't bat an eyelid at this but does look expectantly at James and at that moment, you know you're in for an interesting year.

The house that Sirius now owns is in Godric’s Hollow. When you ask him why he chose that location he says he likes the  _ vibe _ of the place and mentions something about woods but all you can really think of is that it’s the same, old wizarding village that James lives in. It doesn’t make a lot of sense for James to move out of his parents’ house and down the road to live with Sirius, but he looks pleadingly at you like somehow it’s your decision and really, who are you to say no to James Potter?

That’s how you, and Peter Pettigrew for that matter, end up being unofficial housemates in  _ casa de Black _ in 1978. Remus Lupin is also an unofficial housemate but clearly feels guilty about it because he keeps trying to pay Sirius rent. Sirius laughs and bats him away, saying Uncle Alphard paid for this place anyway so there’s no harm done.

To be fair, every visit is an incredibly good time for the first few months at least. Sirius is perpetually untidy and Remus is always cleaning up after him (because Remus is perpetually neat) and James is forever coming up with interesting new decorating ideas like sourcing a gargantuan muggle billiards table and installing it in the middle of the kitchen.

Peter and Sirius turn up one day with a record player and two of the biggest speakers you’ve ever seen and install them in the living room. You apparate to their place for dinner one night in October to find the windows blacked out. Your eardrums are accosted as you open the door and break through the barrier of the  _ muffliato _ charm to find Peter and James jumping on the lounge belting out Celestina Warbeck’s  _ ‘You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me’  _ to Remus (who is looking concerned for his friends’ mental stability) and Sirius (who is looking thrilled).

James doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest when he catches sight of you in the doorway, he just pulls you into the fray, spins you around and catches you in a low dip which makes Peter clap and Sirius waggle his eyebrows. You’re not certain, but in that moment you wonder whether you have truly made it to the inner sanctum of the Marauders. 

That’s hardly the most ridiculous of the goings on at Godric’s Hollow, of course. One Saturday morning you witness the precarious activity of kettle-throwing (apparently re-enacting Remus’ description of the meaning of ‘hot potato’). Then there’s the day that the curtains get burned down because James and Sirius decide to charm the toaster to jump toast onto plates. Unfortunately, someone turns the toaster up too high and flaming missiles eject at random angles. James singes off half of his left eyebrow and is exceedingly upset about it. 

There’s no raucous parties like the Gryffindor common room (you are in a war after all), but otherwise the house feels so familiar, so comfortable. It becomes a safe haven for the five of you, bunkering down and weathering the storm together. A lot happens in those first few months. Peter’s parents get divorced and he starts to spend a lot more time with his mother. Dumbledore turns up on the doorstep and invites you to join a clandestine society known as the Order of the Phoenix (how he knows the location of Sirius’ house and the exact time the five of you are there is unsettling). Then come the deaths.

They say that bad things happen in threes, and so it seems to be true. First, Remus’ mother. You don’t see Remus for a month, and when he returns for a visit he’s hardened and less tender than he was before. Then, Orion Black. Sirius says he doesn’t care much and that his father is no real loss to anyone, but he still goes to the funeral and James tells you that he comes home with red eyes and a welt on his lip where his mother hit him across the face with her signet ring. 

Finally, it comes for you. One Friday, you return home from visiting Godric’s Hollow to find the house empty and the phone ringing continuously. You pick up to hear an anxious female voice on the other end, explaining that your parents have been in a car accident, and you need to get to Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham as soon as possible. The next few days are a blur of anxiety, apathy and crushing grief. Your parents never recover so you’re forced to stand sombrely with Vernon and Petunia at the funeral, before leaning into James and sobbing into his shoulder as your parents are lowered into the earth.

You never ask for his permission, but the day after the funeral Sirius opens the door at Godric’s Hollow to see you standing there with a levitated trunk full of your possessions. He just opens the door wider, settles the trunk and collects you in a tight hug. You stay there, standing on the threshold, wrapped up in Sirius’ arms that smell of mint and cigarettes for what seems like an eternity. It’s not even strange or uncomfortable, it’s just two grieving souls finding each other and clinging on for dear life.

After that day, you live in Godric’s Hollow and there’s no question about it. 

You all find your ways to cope. Sirius and Peter develop a passion project for fixing motorbikes out the back. Remus beats you again and again in wizard’s chess. James tries to cook for everyone and everyone sits dutifully through the meals and pretends to like them. 

The boys disappear into the woods every so often to “maraud” and you learn to never wait up for them. Sirius celebrates his nineteenth birthday and Peter saves everyone’s taste buds by getting him a cake before James can attempt to make him one. You attend your first meeting of the Order and come home comparing notes about how impressive Kingsley Shacklebolt is and wondering whether Emmeline Vance is, like her sister, half Veela. 

The weather cools as late November rolls around and, probably as a consequence of having to spend more time inside, James and Sirius decide they don’t like the colour scheme of the house. In your opinion, the cream walls and white ceilings are completely inoffensive, but it quickly evolves from casual dinner time discussion to full scale ‘do it yourself’ project. Sirius and Peter’s motorbike projects have only ever been partially successful, so the thought of Sirius and James attempting a complete re-paint is slightly alarming. 

It’s more alarming when you discover that the boys plan to paint it like muggles because it’s the ‘manly’ way. Remus (quite rightly) points out that it’s also the most inefficient way, but no one listens to him and it  _ is _ Sirius’ house after all, so if he wants to ruin it, you suppose he can. There’s a point where James and Sirius decide to throw paint at each other as well, but this phase passes and fortunately they manage to fix it with some intense cleaning charms.

Sirius (being Sirius) and James (being James) decide to paint the walls red, which is somewhat disappointing. As much as you love Gryffindor, the red walls, beds, sheets, couches and hangings clash horribly with your hair. You had hoped to escape that taxing colour scheme after leaving Hogwarts, but it seems it is not to be.

Peter clears out to his mum’s house for most of the paint-job of 1978, which is probably a wise idea on his part. Remus says he’s going to clear out too, but Remus hasn’t been back to his dad’s house since his mum died, and it becomes apparent he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Sirius tells him to stop being stupid and that he simply won’t allow Remus to live anywhere else. Remus seems placated by this approach and ends up moving his minimal possessions into the spare room.

There’s a moment, when Remus is leaning against the doorframe reading a book on paint-strippers and the three of you are sitting on upturned paint tins sipping Earl Grey, getting steadily woozier by the second from the pungent paint fumes, when you realise this is how it’s supposed to be. Truthfully, you would love to live alone with James and make your own home, be a Healer instead of a member of a secret anti-Voldemort society and not be in the middle of a war. But right now you’re content to sit on an uncomfortable metal cylinder and listen to Sirius, who is both your landlord and your quasi-dependant, prattle on about Quidditch with James and watch Remus’ read what you can only imagine to be some invigorating content.

Despite the deaths and the war and the fact that Sirius and James may never completely grow up, the world seems a little less dark in that moment. When the paint-saga is finished and Peter returns, the five of you have takeaway in the living room and laugh about the red that’s  _ everywhere _ and forget about everything outside your four walls for an hour or two. In this house you have everything. Remus to talk to, Peter to laugh with, Sirius to provide constant entertainment and James to be your best friend, your lifeline and everything else. 

You have a role here too. You bring the level-headedness that, quite frankly, they all need. You’re there to remind them that they need to occasionally eat fruit and vegetables to avoid getting scurvy and that despite the work they might get from the Order, that they also need to sleep sometimes. You talk James out of making questionable cooking decisions and counteract Sirius’ slightly manic energy. You balance them.

The walls might be red, there may be residual paint tins lying around the house and you might live off grilled cheese sandwiches and potatoes most of the time but this is home. You crave the tight knit friendships and fall totally in love with James in the process. It’s not forever, but for now it’s as close to paradise as you can get.

On the 31st of December the five of you huddle close together on the back step, noses red from the cold and gentle snowflakes clinging to your eyelashes to watch Sirius’ latest batch of Dr Filibuster’s Fireworks bring in the new year. Remus swigs from a bottle of Firewhisky and Sirius and Peter smoke too many cigarettes and James tries to imitate Celestina Warbeck again and you all shout at him so he throws slushy snow at you. 

At midnight, James wraps you up in a bone crushing hug and kisses the living daylights out of you and Sirius drunkenly kisses Remus just because he can. He tries to kiss Peter as well but Peter hasn’t drunk as much as Remus and manages to avoid him. Then you push them all back inside before you freeze to death and because James wants to turn the record player on and have a dance battle with Sirius who looks like he can barely stay upright. 

Yes, you’re fighting a war and three of you have lost parents in the last four months but for now everything is fine and the five of you let 1978 slide into 1979.


	10. Chimera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon note: Yes, I am aware that Lily and James are supposed to be married before March 1979 but I slowed down the timeline a little...I hope no one minds.
> 
> Not a full re-edit on this one! I mean the grammar was still awful and I had to tone down the girl-on-girl hate (no seriously, it was worse than this) and I'm still not sure whether Lily likes James in the OG chapter but anyway she said yes so I guess she did?
> 
> FRIENDS we are almost finished the re-write and I'm very excited. Perhaps I should start a new James/Lily after this? I have so many ideas! So happy to get back on my OG ship!

Some say, with absolute certainty, that all redheads have quick tempers.

You seriously don't understand how the colour tone of one’s hair can determine certain personality traits, but you would passionately disagree with those people. It’s a stupid stereotype, like blondes are supposed to be vapid and brunettes are supposed to be boring. Only, not many people would likely _say_ those things out loud to a blonde or a brunette. For some reason, the same people don’t have qualms about pointing out your red locks and calling you a “firecracker.”

As a redhead, you think that most are no exception to every other normal person. Very much able to keep their temper in check provided that they are not subject to _extenuating circumstances_. 

Sirius would proclaim loudly to the masses that you, Lily Evans, have a short- _ish_ fuse. But if anyone wanted to believe Sirius on that claim you would challenge them to cohabit with him for just one day and see how mad they turn out (you love Sirius, you really do, but it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say he drives everyone a little crazy). 

The current state of affairs you find yourself in are very much, in your mind, extenuating circumstances. Any angry outburst is very much not your fault at this point in time. Nor should it, in your opinion, be attributed to your hair colour which you would assure anyone is simply a product of genetics. Everyone in your family aside from Petunia has red hair, after all. Petunia is a brunette, but you suspect she is also a manticore in disguise, so really it all checks out. 

The circumstances you find yourself in are currently wearing very thin, which is ironic because you’re also in one of the most expensive restaurants in the middle of London. Usually, you would be fretting about accidentally dropping food or drink on the pristine, white tablecloths or sneezing accidentally and receiving a disapproving sniff from two tables over. Incidentally, you are still concerned about such things, but only slightly as something else has been on your mind entirely. 

It’s in these circumstances that it’s somewhat difficult to have a boyfriend like James Potter. Despite valiantly trying to convince yourself throughout your schooling career, it was very hard to convince yourself that he was unattractive in any way. Of course, you don’t love every bit of his ridiculous self purely because he looks good hanging off your shoulder, but you’d have to be a crazy person not to admit that he’s incredibly easy on the eye. Not that you’d ever tell him that, unless you wanted his head to cease being able to fit through doors.

You consider that it might be abnormal to consider your boyfriend’s good looks to be a negative factor, but sometimes it just attracts too much attention. Although you’d disagree with anyone who tells you that your red hair contributes to a short temper, it would be an outright lie to deny that you have a fairly active _jealous streak_. 

The hostess, who literally guided you into this restaurant and has therefore been present for the entire duration of your meal, has been _very_ attentive. Not to you, of course. But definitely to your significant other. So attentive in fact, that it is becoming near impossible to restrain yourself from whipping your wand out in the presence of about fifty muggles to _stupefy_ her to within an inch of her life. 

You don’t feel exceptionally bad about that thought because it appears to you that if the hostess knew about magic or was able to produce it, she would gladly extend the same courtesy. Her attitude toward your general existence suggests she would happily ignore the fact that James is seated with another person.

James is, of course, very disinclined to appear rude, and so he has been perfectly polite. On the contrary, you wish that he would just be the prattish version of himself for once. Alternatively, you wish he would just tell her to sod off and be done with it. You would gladly tell her yourself but since she doesn't recognise that you’re even present, that's been a little problematic.

It's really not James’ fault, and you feel a little bad for glaring at him every time she comes over to insist that she could be of more service, but since you’ve just finished your main courses, your frustration has been building for well over an hour. You’re on the verge of either an angry explosion or ugly-crying and you’re not quite sure which one it is yet. 

“Lily?” he asks quietly, staring at you questioningly. You realise you completely zoned out for around ten minutes just thinking about ways in which to subtly maim your newfound enemy.

“Mm, sorry?” you mumble, chewing your lip up in frustration.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, hazel eyes looking a bit anxious.

“Things,” you reply, helpfully.

“Like what?” he presses.

“Do you think Petunia could be half manticore?”

He pretends to consider this seriously and then replies, “'I would say more of a chimera. They're more dangerous.”

“Mm.”

A silence falls over the table for about a minute before he feels inclined to break it again. To be honest you would rather stay silent until you can leave. You’re worried that if your mouth isn’t sealed tightly shut you might accidentally start yelling. 

“Are you alright, Lily?” he asks.

To be fair, you could ask the same of him. James has been mighty polite and friendly the entire night, but he's been a little different to his usual enthusiastic, excitable self. He's done less talking of Quidditch, broomsticks and matches than he's ever done within an hour and a half and he's also fixed his tie approximately seven hundred times.

If you didn’t know him any better, you would have said he was either nervous or very distracted. If the answer is distracted, you’re not sure you want to know what’s going on in his mind because if it has anything to do with a certain hostess you will probably scream. 

“Any chance you want to take a look at the dessert menu, sir?” she breathes sweetly, sweeping up to the table and turning decisively to face James.

“I think we'd rather just get the bill,” you mutter, jaw clenched as she sighs, still facing away from you and addresses James with an exceedingly polite “certainly, Mr. Potter.”

James' eyes sweep over you as soon as she leaves, and then look down at his lap. Something is definitely afoot.

“You don't like it here?” he asks dejectedly, as if it is his fault your night has been an unmitigated jealousy-fest.

You feel a bit bad. This restaurant will no doubt cost James a small fortune. No matter how many times you insist on contributing to a fraction of the cost of every bill, he eventually persuades you to let him cover it. Either that or he covertly pays with his one muggle credit card when you’ve dashed off to the loo. Merlin knows which bank approved him for a credit card with all of his real money stashed away at Gringotts. 

James is clearly struggling with something and the tone of his voice makes you want to melt a little bit and reassure him that this time you’re annoyed with someone other than him. 

“It’s fine. I'm just tired,” you say. It has the opposite of the intended effect.

“I'm sorry if I upset you,” he murmurs, eyes troubled as one hand reaches up to fix whatever is in his inside pocket.

Before you can say anything else the bill arrives, thankfully by a different employee, and after a few minutes of the obligatory argument he pays, with a generous tip, and you promptly leave.

It's very cold outside, even with a thick coat on, and you desperately want to apparate away from the restaurant as fast as possible, but James is lingering. He's still looking a little peaky, but has at least stopped fiddling with his tie as much and is trying to locate something else within his coat pocket.

When he finally finishes being preoccupied with his clothing, you take his arm and march him into the closest alleyway.

“Where are we going Lily?” he questions, as if it is not the most obvious thing in the world. That it was not clear we are heading straight back to Godric’s Hollow, without having to worry about overly flirtatious hostesses or expensive restaurants.

“Home, James.”

“Oh,” he mutters, still chewing his bottom lip.

“Are you okay James? You're acting awfully odd,” you ask, putting one finger under his chin to lift it up. His face is pale in the light of the dim streetlight, and his forehead is clammy. 

“I'm okay,” he murmurs, shrugging your hand off and looking down at his own. “I, um,” he starts uneasily, “I, actually wanted to...well, I actually wanted to know if...I wanted to ask you something,” he continues, stumbling over his words. 

You do a quick mental calculation of the amount of standard drinks he has consumed tonight. A grand total of zero. Very odd.

“It'sokaythoughmaybeanothertime,” he rushes, becoming completely incomprehensible.

“Are you going to ask me out again?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood, “because you know what the answer to that is.”

He cracks a weak smile and shakes his head silently.

“What is it then?” you press, still not quite sure why you’re having this conversation in the middle of a garbage bag filled alleyway.

“Nothing. Let's go home shall we?” he covers, taking your arm gently.

You pull back decisively. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing Lily, I'm just tired.”

“You can't use my own excuse against me!” you exclaim.

“So something was wrong in the restaurant? Did I make a bad choice? You didn't like it did you? I'm really sorry Lily I thought-”

“Will you listen to yourself?” you snap, completely frustrated with his inability to act normally.

“Is it so suspicious to try and make you happy?” he frowns, brows knitting together.

“No, but you're being very strange today James.”

“Do I have to apologise for that too?”

“Well do you have something to apologise for?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Did you plan to take me out to dinner in the most expensive restaurant in London to make up for something?”

“Lily I would never-”

“Well you're acting like there was some ulterior motive.”

“Lily, you're being completely absurd!”

You stop only because he's looking positively murderous and you're not sure you want to take it any further.

“I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you’re insinuating, Lily, because I would never, ever, even consider being unfaithful to you,” he continues, running his hands repeatedly through his hair.

“Well I-”

“No listen. I'm sorry that I was acting completely irrational tonight, and that maybe I picked the wrong location for you. But this is not something I'm exceptionally practised in.

“However, if you're actually being serious about me being with some other... _person_ , then you're completely mad. Did you really think I'd take _you_ for granted? Someone I've been desperately trying to impress since I was twelve years old?”

“We've been together for a while now, surely you don't feel you have to impress me anymore,” you mutter, although the heat in your voice has gone and you feel a bit idiotic for jumping to some lofty conclusions.

“Of course I do. I have to keep you don't I?” he smiles weakly.

“Don't be a prat,” you say quickly. “It just seems odd.” 

“Who _cares_ how this seems, Lily!” he exclaims, exasperation rising in him again. “I was simply trying to enjoy a night with my girlfriend!”

The guilt is well and truly setting in. You turn away from him sharply. 

“For heaven's sake Lily!” he says, frustration clear in his tone as he steps towards you purposefully and pulling your arm to make you turn back around. “I wasn't trying to apologise to you. I was planning on proposing.”

Silence ensues as you stand there, dumbstruck. It’s a very attractive position you’re sure. He doesn’t seem to notice as he drops a small, velvet box into your hand from his inside pocket. 

“So sorry if I was being _odd,_ ” he continues, “but I've never really done this before and I know there's a high chance of you saying no. 

“Before you say it, I know we're so young and only just out of school, and don’t even have a real job yet, aside from the Order. But it's too dangerous even living these days to consider putting anything off for any longer.

“We have to _live,_ Lily. Life is probably going to be too short for you and I to waste it and forget about important things like this. I know it's not traditional or conventional, but when it comes down to it, I know I love you Lily and no one else is ever going to make me tick like you do. I don’t want anyone else to wake up next to me in the morning or remind me that there are vegetables other than potatoes or save me from Sirius' flaming missile toasters. I’ve never been so hopelessly and pathetically obsessed with someone in my life. 

“I wasn't sure how you were going to take this because we've never really talked about it before, and judging by your expression you've never really thought about it before, either. I might have shocked you a bit, and you don't have to answer now or any time soon if you don't want to, and I'll understand if you feel rushed. I don't want to pressure you –”

It is sweet, it really is and you are a bit shocked, so you let the aimless (however very lovely) rambling go on for a few more minutes before you decide to put him out of his misery. Because yes, you do love James however inconvenient it may be when he attracts the attention of annoying hostesses. It is slightly irresponsible to agree to marry someone when you're barely eighteen, but you don't think you could ever give up on James. He is just a little too addictive and a little too loveable.

“This is lovely,” you murmur, turning the ring over in your hand.

“Erm, I know,” he fidgets, obviously caught off guard at your seemingly random comment in the middle of his monologue. “I wasn't sure if you liked the oval, but I really thought it would look nice on you.”

“I was referring to the proposal, silly,” you smile, genuinely. “The ring is beautiful, but if I was going to marry you, I would hope you would consider it to be about more than just a few diamonds.”

“Oh,” he says.

“Of course, an alleyway probably isn't the most conventional place to ask someone to spend the rest of their life with you,” you smirk, reaching out to touch his face.

The poor boy looks utterly confused.

“Lily I-”

“Please James, you've never really been all that conventional, and neither have I. In fact I'd probably rather you ask me out here than back in there with that hostess that looked like she wanted to eat your face off.”

“She did?”

You shove him lightly. “Idiot.”

He breathes out deeply, probably expelling all the nervousness and smirks right back at you.

“I'll marry you, James,” you say, “on a couple of conditions.”

He doesn’t even wait to hear the conditions as he returns your smile with a dazzling grin that reaches all the way to the very corners of his lips. He picks you up in his arms, twirls you around and pulls you in for a breathless kiss. 

“Just one moment,” he says, grins mischievously and then yells into the night, “LILY EVANS AGREED TO MARRY ME!”

You can’t help but laugh. A stranger from the bar across the street replies, “ONYA, MATE,” and another says, “DON’T DO IT TO YOURSELF!”

“What are the conditions?” he asks, face flushed when you break apart. 

“One. No marauding at the wedding,”' you say, quirking an eyebrow as you imagine his grandiose plans which probably involve his friends doing something outrageous.

He nods slowly, although alarmingly looks as if he is thinking of loopholes.

“Two,” you say, carrying on before he can scheme up a plan, “I want at least one pet after we’re married and move in together, _without Sirius_.”

You have to stress that last bit to make sure he gets the point.

“Can it be a dog?” he asks innocently, linking his arm into yours as you prepare to side-along.

“I was thinking more of a manticore,” you tease, prodding him in the side with your unlinked hand.

“I can’t agree to that, Lily,” he says, with false sincerity. 

“Fine. A chimera?”

“No chimeras. And before you even _ask_ , no Petunias either,” he smiles as you twist on the spot and evaporate into the cold, night air.


End file.
